


Napkin Anthology

by ChuckleVoodoos



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Healthy Relationships, Literature, M/M, Pining, Unhealthy Relationships, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 17:54:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChuckleVoodoos/pseuds/ChuckleVoodoos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which fanboy Matt falls in love with a writer, actually meets them eight years later, falls into bed, drinks a lot of tequila, and completely fails to woo his pen-wielding sweetheart by performing the ancient mating dance of quoting Dr. Seuss and punching people. </p><p>That's the problem with loving a writer, you know. What works in books doesn't always work in reality. And love? Love is in a lot of books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Napkin Anthology

It begins with a happy ending.

 

Matt’s always been a bit of a drifter, no solid goals or defined majors or ten-step plans for saving the world. He vaguely knows that he wants to stand up for what’s right, and he wouldn’t mind a steady paycheck, but other than that he’s clueless.

 

He’s jealous of the legacies that flit around campus. This one’s father was a doctor, so that’s what she’ll be. This one’s mother was an accountant, and that worked out well enough so why not continue the tradition? Matt’s father was a boxer, as poor as he was noble, and Matt’s mother was a god-knows-what. Not much of a legacy, and fighting doesn’t pay well. It also doesn’t end well when you try to stand up for what’s right ( _blood, sharp and iron and Matt can’t tell if the body’s still warm or if it’s just the heat of the officers as they pull him away)._  

 

It’s almost worse because Matt’s rather clever. He’s gotten top marks in all of his classes since finger-painting class in kindergarten, so there’s no one area where he shines. Everyone keeps telling him ‘you can do anything you want to do, Matty’, but there’s always that edge of acrid pity and sand-paper sympathy and he knows they’re lying. Matt can’t do anything he wants to do. Blind people can’t, you _see._

 

He wants to snap: ‘I think I want to be a neurosurgeon. Would you let me operate on you?’ He wants to spit it out and listen to them shift awkwardly away with a mumbled apology, but he knows it would just make them more nervous around him and as much as he hates being treated like glass, he hates being treated like _broken_ glass more.

 

He wishes, just once, that he had something to breathe for.

It’s divine intervention, Matt thinks later. He’s helping the overworked librarian set up for a book fair, and she’s offering him a cookie with every book he shelves, tutting over how skinny he’s gotten over break. She reminds him of the nuns at St. Agnes, so he takes all the treats, eats them until he feels sick, and listens to her recommendations for new books. His pickings are slim, even with the influx of materials from the book fair, although there are a few more audiobooks available. No DAISY format books, but Matt's used to that. He gets by. He takes her top recommendation and a cookie back to his dorm room, pops the first CD into his player and settles in for a night of tepid enjoyment and respite from reality.

 

And he’s hooked. He listens to the whole thing all day and all night, spends the time he should be sleeping, and he stumbles his way to the dining hall for breakfast in a daze. He can’t stop thinking about Nick Nocturne and his extraordinary legal escapades. A lawyer by day, an amateur sleuth by night, Nick Nocturne is a hero and an anti-hero and his own worst villain all rolled into one. He’s a lover and a fighter and he’s slick and suave and smart and seductive and he’s everything Matt’s always wanted to be but never know _how_ to be.

 

He chokes down half a bagel, feeds the rest to the birds, and stumbles back to his room to re-listen. He skips class for the first time since he came to Columbia, and he doesn’t even feel guilty. It’s like being born again. Matt has found another religion. He listens to the very first minute again, the syllables rolling easily off the tongue of some mellow narrator that Matt likes immediately, voice smooth and buttery.

 

 _“Guilty as Sin, by Elektra Natchios.”_ Matt rewinds. “ _Elektra Natchios. Elektra Natchios. Elektra Natchios."_ The name of an angel.

 

Matt Murdock is going to be a lawyer, and he is going to be slick and suave and smart and seductive, and one day he’s going to meet Elektra Natchios and she’s going to realize she was writing about him the whole time. She just didn’t know it.

 

Matt's new life begins the second he reads that happy ending.

 

* * *

 

It’s eight years and two Elektra Natchios books later that Matt gets his chance.

 

A benefit for the firm, the first benefit that Matt’s actually been invited to, and who is the guest of honor, the belle of the ball, the jewel in the crown of the gala? Elektra Natchios.

 

Divine intervention.

 

Matt spends a month’s worth of salary renting the best suit he can find, and he either has to go without food for the next two months or else rent new shoes too. Matt considers making the sacrifice, but finally chooses to shine up the pair that won him his spot at Landman and Zack and that, according to the shady vendor, looks like the real deal $2,000 pair. He considers bringing his copy of _Guilty as Sin_ for her to sign, but decides that it won’t do to look desperate. No, he’ll play it cool. He’ll be Nick Nocturne for the night, and he’ll get the girl and make a splash and be happy, truly happy, for once in his life.

 

“Thank you.” Matt murmurs, grasping at the third offered flute of champagne he’s gotten tonight and the third he’s accepted. He needs to be witty and champagne can only help with that. The first glass had fizzed in his mouth like a particularly clever comeback, but now it all tastes flat. Three hours, three glasses of champagne, and he hears people muttering around him in hushed tones. Elektra Natchios is a no-show.

 

A month’s salary and a month’s time spent dreaming—no, eight _years_ spent dreaming, all down the drain. Matt wonders if Elektra Natchios had car trouble, or became ill, or simply got a better offer. He’s sure she has a glamorous adventure of a reason for not showing. She must.

 

And then Matt hears a voice, and he _knows_ it, knows it like his own heartbeat.

 

“I have a dogeared copy of Bulfinch’s _Mythology_ and a full tub of Häagen-Dazs Pomegranate Swirl waiting for me at home, you know. Keeping me here just so you can laugh at me in a penguin suit is cruel, even for you.”

 

The champagne suddenly fizzles to life inside of him again, all at once, bubbling in his blood. That voice…

 

“Excuse me.” Matt gets it out numbly, drifting away from Mr. Zack in an abrupt manner he knows he’ll be paying for over the next few weeks, but it doesn’t matter because he knows that voice. “I _know_ you.”

 

He doesn’t mean to say it out loud. He means to start with something a little more socially acceptable, like ‘are you enjoying the party?’, but it’s like his mind has been scrambled all at once because he _knows_ this voice.

 

“You do?" That _voice_ seems mildly bemused but still rather friendly, a rarity at this coldly cordial gathering. "Because I’m pretty sure I’d remember meeting you. I’m Foggy Nelson, I—“

 

“You’re the narrator.” Matt manages to choke out. “Her narrator. You narrate her books.” Obviously, that’s what a narrator does. Matt’s an idiot. If he’s fumbling this much in front of the narrator, how badly would he have done in front of Elektra? Maybe it’s a good thing she’s not here. “She’s not here?”

 

“Um.” Foggy Nelson, the _narrator,_ the voice that’s cradled Matt to sleep at night countless times like a well-cared-for lullaby, offers uncertainly. “She. Um. No?”

 

“Pathetic, Franklin. Remind me never to ask you for an alibi.” A woman cuts in, disgusted. Matt notices a thick accent in her voice, something rich and exotic. It only takes a moment to put it together. An alibi.

 

“You’re Elektra Natchios.” Matt whispers. He thinks his knees might give out, and he knows his voice is shaking, and it’s not the sort of impression he wants to give. He wants to be Nick Nocturne, not Matt Murdock. He takes a steadying sip of his champagne, downs the whole thing in one go, and Elektra Natchios laughs. It’s not a kind sound, but it’s a lovely one.

 

“And you’ve just spilled your drink, Mr. Bond. Perhaps you should have asked for a sippy cup.”

 

No. Matt wonders if the floor could perhaps swallow him whole. Freak earthquakes are a possibility here, right? Maybe that explains the tremor running down Matt's spine.

 

“No worries, here.” A second later, there’s a crisp paper napkin is being pressed into his hand. Matt wipes at his sticky chin, and he feels the curl of a traitorous blush creeping up his neck and over his ears. “Don’t worry, I have spares. I stuff my pockets. I, uh, spill a lot. Twice already, tonight.”

 

Matt feels slightly better at the self-effacing cheer in the narrator’s voice, and tucks the crumpled napkin into his pocket. He’ll toss it away later, after he crawls away from this shameful spectacle.

 

“Thank you.” Matt murmurs, and Foggy makes a cheerful noise of acknowledgement. “So, are you enjoying the party?” Better. Much better.

 

It’s not enough.

 

“Oh, let’s not beat around the bush here.” Elektra Natchios drawls. “You’re a fanboy, aren’t you? That’s the only reason I can think someone would be desperate enough to come to one of these, outside of draconian contractual obligations. Not to mention it really doesn’t seem like your crowd.”

 

“My…crowd.” Matt’s not quite sure what this means. He was invited to this party, fair and square. He didn’t sneak his way in.

 

“Well, I mean.” Elektra Natchios starts, a saccharine slant to her voice. “Suit you’re probably renting by the hour, off the rack. Tie that’s at least a decade out of date, now complete with a champagne stain, very chic. Knock-off wingtips that you probably shined yourself. It’s just not your crowd.” Ah. Matt feels that stupid, stupid blush threatening to bloom further, always at the worst time. “And you looked like Christmas came early when you heard Franklin’s voice, which let’s face it, is not going to happen outside of a very specific audience: fanboys. Boring. I’ll sign whatever token you brought and then I’ll leave you to your wallowing, shall I?”

 

The tie is closer to three decades old, actually. It was Matt’s father’s favorite tie, and he remembers the rich red color of the fabric like it was yesterday. It’s one of the few colors he remembers with perfect clarity, and it’s a good luck token just like his knock-off shoes are. It will _never_ go out of style, and that brief burst of anger at the slight against it's obvious worth is what gives Matt the edge he needs.

 

“Actually, I came here to marvel at spoiled rich girls like you, the ones that are so jaded that they can’t enjoy themselves unless someone else, someone _lesser,_ is suffering. It’s a bit like going to the zoo to observe the wild animals. And you know, it’s funny, but I think I heard somewhere that only the boring get bored. _I’m_ having a great time. How about you?”

 

There is a moment of dead silence. Then Elektra Natchios laughs. Still not soft, still lovely.

 

“Plucky. I like that. Franklin, why don’t you go get our plucky young hero something to drink? I’ll keep him company while you go.” Matt hides a gulp, torn between thrilled and terrified.

 

“There’s a tray of wine two feet to the left.” Foggy points out flatly, not swayed. “Just let me lean for a second.”

 

“No, no, not that swill.” Elektra Natchios cuts him off impatiently. “There should be a bottle of something delightful back in the kitchens. Macallan, good year. Just ask around, will you, dear? And fetch me something too while you’re back there, hmm? They hide away all the best in the back. Mezcal, you’ll know it when you see it.”

 

Foggy snorts.

 

“I’m not going to go bother the cooks just because you want _tequila._ This isn’t a frat party.” He argues, unimpressed. Matt clears his throat.

 

“Actually, Macallan sounds…fantastic.” He tells Foggy hesitantly. “I’m not much of a wine drinker.”

 

He’s fine with wine, actually, especially the sweet kind on the tray two feet to the left, but his mouth is watering at the thought of whiskey and come to think of it, it might not be the whiskey making his mouth water.

 

“Macallan.” Foggy repeats, skeptical. Matt shrugs back, offering him a hesitant smile. “Right. I’ll just go get on that, shall I? Elektra, do try to remember that you are contractually obligated to stay here for at least two hours. It’s been two minutes. Nice to meet you, Mister…?”

 

“Me? Murdock. Matthew. Murdock.” God, he’s been reduced to a caveman. He feels frozen, already caught in the spell of Elektra Natchios.

 

“Nice to meet you, Matthew Murdock.” It’s a bit of a treat, hearing his own name coming from the mouth of his favorite narrator, enough to make him turn away from the jasmine smell of Elektra Natchios's perfume for a moment and hold out his hand to shake. “I’m Foggy, which I already said, sorry.”

 

Matt can’t help but notice that Foggy has a very nice hand, dry but not chapped and cool but not cold. There’s a callus there along the top knuckle of the middle finger—an artist’s callus, or a writer’s. Someone who holds a lot of pens. That’s rare nowadays. So much is done on computers, hardly anyone takes the time to scribble something out.

 

“Tick tock, Franklin.” Elektra Natchios cuts in. “I’m getting thirsty.”

 

“And _I’m_ getting the distinct impression that I’m not wanted here.” Foggy replies dryly, and Matt hides a wince because the man's not totally  _wrong_ but Matt honestly didn't mean to make it that obvious. “I’ll just go get you your _Macallan,_ Matthew. Elektra, I assume you can find the tequila on your own—that seems to be a talent.”

 

Foggy stomps off without another word—except a few choice ones muttered under his breath that Matt thinks he wasn’t supposed to catch—and it’s only once he’s truly out of the main hall that Matt dares speak.

 

“There’s no Macallan in the kitchen, is there?” He accuses, and he actually manages a modicum of disapproval. Poor Foggy, sent on a wild goose chase like that.

 

“Not a drop, darling.” Elektra Natchios agrees slyly. “But I happen to have a bottle hidden away at home. Want a sip?”

 

Matt has to bite back the instinctive ‘please, god, yes’. Instead, he keeps his smile even and his shoulders relaxed. He’s not nervous. He’s Nick Nocturne, and he’s going to get the girl.

 

“Maybe just one.”

 

And he barely gets home the next morning, and his suit is in ruins, but Elektra's paid for it and for another dozen besides. The tailor wasn't pleased to be called in at two o'clock in the morning for a private fitting, and was even less pleased when Elektra stole the measuring tape and insisted on measuring Matt's inseam personally, but Elektra wants what Elektra gets. Last night proved that quite handily. Matt now owns more suits than his bosses do, all fitted extremely well and fitted most especially well around the inseam. Elektra says that she'll have them delivered when they're done and Matt can wear one of them on their next night out. Next. Night. Out. Matt's in heaven. He empties out his pockets before bed, the apartment keys and a few loose pebbles he’d kicked and then picked up on the way home when he liked the sound of them, one of Elektra’s thongs to help remember her by. His fingers brush against the paper napkin, and if he were feeling less sentimental then he’d toss it, sticky with champagne and crumpled helplessly, but as it is…He puts it to his nose and smells champagne, and he sighs in bliss.

 

He puts the thong under his pillow and the keys on his nightstand, and then he tucks the napkin into the bedside drawer with the pebbles, closes the drawer tight and smiles.

 

* * *

 

It’s like someone sucks all the air out of the room, when Elektra enters it. The caught breaths and racing hearts are like a red carpet, rolling across the room as she moves across the floor, and Matt doesn’t need to see her to know she’s beautiful.

 

When she asked him to come to another ‘dreadful mess of a thing, but they call it a party’, how could he say no? He couldn’t. He'd put on one of his new suits and shined his lucky shoes and hurried to answer her call. And Elektra was with him for the first few minutes, and then they’d snuck into a closet and she’d been _very_ with him, and then she was gone. She’s been flitting around this whole time, flirting and bantering and twisting people around into knots, and Matt had given up trying to keep up with her an hour or so ago.

 

“Hiding near the food—very wise.” Matt jumps, turning towards the new voice addressing him. Well, the old voice in a new place. “Matthew Murdock, right? What’s your middle name?”

 

Matt’s a bit off-kilter from this sudden burst of conversation after being relatively ignored for the past hour. He rolls with it as best he can.

 

“Michael.” He offers, nonplussed. Foggy laughs, triumphant.

 

“Matthew Michael Murdock, Now that, sir, is a main character name. That is a hero’s name. It’s the alliteration that does it, I think, although having two biblical heavyweight namesakes certainly adds a certain drama. Wow. Your parents must be awesome.” Foggy says it all in a rush, giddy and cheerful, and Matt’s surprised that he doesn’t feel a lurch of loss at the slip.

 

“I didn’t know my mother. My father was…very awesome.” Matt says gently, and it doesn’t hurt as much as it could. Foggy sucks in a tiny breath, catching the hint, but he doesn’t launch into overdone apologies. Matt is grateful for that. There's only so many times that he can assure people that his father died years ago and Matt is (mostly, sometimes, occasionally) over it, really. 

 

“So, was his name something like Mark Moses Murdock? Is the awesome naming thing a family tradition, or…?” Matt smiles at that, and he actually means it.

 

“Jack.” He confesses simply. “Just Jack.” Foggy hums, thoughtful.

 

“Jack Murdock. Strong name.” He decides with great finality. “It’s got some consonance going on, which is majorly underrated, you know. Nice, solid ‘kuh’ sound. I like it. Lots of namesakes there too, really. Jack and the Beanstalk, Jack and Jill, Jack Be Nimble. So, we’ve got a fairytale name and a Bible name, which some naysayers might say is synonymous, but let’s not be pessimists. Tonight is a happy night. I talk a lot when I drink a little, it’s really a problem, so why don’t you talk instead?”

 

He gets it all out in one breath, and Matt’s impressed despite himself. He can see what Foggy means by talking a lot, but it's not necessarily a bad thing. 

 

“No, I get it.” He assures Foggy kindly. “Talking is your business. It’s a gift.” It’s surreal, really, to be standing here and talking to a voice that he’s listened to so often before without ever really connecting it to a _person._ He keeps expecting Foggy to start leading into the story, say ‘Chapter 1: Into the Ring…’

 

“Or a curse, depending on who you ask.” Foggy concludes glumly. “But hey, so, Matthew Michael—wow, look at _that_ grimace, not a fan of your full name?”

 

“Matt. Please. I like my name, it’s just…not me. Not every day.” It’s hard to explain. “Matthew’s my name when I’m getting into trouble.” He remembers nuns, priests, teachers, even his father, all saying it in that same tone. ‘Matthew Michael Murdock, you get over here right now, young man.’

 

“Matt, then.” Foggy repeats, pleased. Inordinately pleased, really. It’s just a name. “Matt, do you like caviar?” Matt blinks, thrown.

 

“I…suppose?” He tries, unsure. “I don’t think they’re serving it here though.” He’s had it all of once, and it was the cheap stuff. Saying yes to liking fancy food seems to be the right choice though, here in this room full of glitz and glamor.

 

“That would be correct.” Foggy agrees solemnly. “Mostly because I hid the tray they were _going_ to be serving here. Hey, I thought I was going to be marooned, I needed snacks!” He defends from whatever expression he sees on Matt’s face. “And so, in a peace offering to another marooned partygoer, I would be willing to share my booty with you.” Matt arches an eyebrow, smirking. He's a taken man, he really shouldn't be flirting like this, but is it really flirting when it's all in good fun and he has no intention on taking it further? No, he decides. Besides, Foggy seems like the type who can tell a joke from a come-on. “You have a filthy mind, sir." Foggy chides him, delighted but just as innocently teasing as Matt was, and Matt relaxes. Not flirting. Just...bantering. "Fine, my loot. My spoils of war. My bounty, not my booty. Happy?” Matt shrugs gracefully, smirk still firmly in place. “Pervert. I like you. Come on, let’s get some grub.” That shatters Matt's smirk, an uncertain frown taking its place. 

 

“I can’t.” Matt protests, although he’s tempted. “Elektra might need me.”

 

“Uh-huh.” Foggy offers, noncommittal. “That’s really decent of you, not wanting to ditch somebody at a party with no warning.” Matt winces at the reminder, but Foggy doesn’t seem to mean it as more than a teasing reference. “But we’re staying in the hall, don’t worry. She can hone in on you in a second. She smells fear.” Matt would protest, but he's...not entirely sure that Foggy is wrong.

 

It’s hard to say no after that, which is how Matt finds himself tucked away next to a potted plant, behind which Foggy has hidden a veritable smorgasbord of food.

 

“It started with the caviar, but you need something sweet to balance that out. Maybe some Muscat grapes? Chocolate truffles?”

 

“Is there any food left for the other guests?” Matt laughs, entertained despite himself.

 

“Sure—all the icky stuff. Come on, eat and be merry.” Foggy pokes Matt with the platter. “You’re really skinny, you know? Let’s fix that.”

 

Matt tries a bit of caviar, at Foggy’s urging, and it’s pure and clean and delicious but just a little too strong, pure salt and clean fish and he feels drunker on that small bite than from any amount of champagne. Foggy samples everything, but Matt sticks mostly to the safe grapes—Muscat grapes, nothing like the plain bagged brand Matt gets at the store, and he wonders how much these would cost to add to his grocery budget. They share the truffles, and those are the best by far. Dark and warming, like a solid bite of hot cocoa and marshmallow thickness all rolled together in bitter-rich powder.

 

The food’s better than anything Matt’s going to be eating for years, but the conversation is better still.

 

Matt has been previously diagnosed as shy, boring, awkward, creepy, cold, and a dozen other mantles that he’s not quite confident enough to shrug off. He’s never been able to talk like this, for so long without even the barest hint of anxiety. He listens to Foggy’s voice and he listens to Foggy’s heartbeat, and Foggy never lies to him, not even to look good. Foggy’s truthful and funny and down-to-earth, and he grew up in Hell’s Kitchen just like Matt.

 

“But you didn’t go to Columbia, or I’d have known you.” Matt points out logically. “We’d at least have been in book club together.”

 

“Cornell.” Foggy professes, almost sheepish. That’s just silly, they’re both Ivy League schools, but Matt finds himself wishing Foggy had gone to Columbia instead. “But Ithaca’s the farthest I’ve ever gotten from Hell’s Kitchen. I’ve never really left New York.”

 

It’s farther than Matt’s gotten.

 

“So, you majored in…narration at Cornell?” Matt presses, interested. “Is that a thing?”

 

Foggy huffs, entertained by Matt's joking guess.

 

“Actually, I majored in English at Cornell, along with a few ill-advised minors. And I’m not a narrator, you know.” Matt tilts his head in question. “Well, I mean, I _am_ a narrator, but only for the Elektra stuff. Otherwise, I am a very beleaguered and abused editor. Professional audiobook narration doesn’t really pay well by itself. If only, right?”

 

“If only.” Matt agrees. “So, editing. You edit Elektra’s books too?”

 

“Uh, yeah.” Foggy doesn’t sound overly honored by this prospect. “I’m kind of a jack-of-all-trades, so I do other stuff too. Like Marci Stahl does these neat little legal-terminology-for-dummies books, they’re great, almost make me wish I'd gone to law school instead. Oh, and Karen Page writes children’s books, the _Penny and Dime_ series, and they're out of this world. Sometimes I wish she were a couple decades older so I could grow up reading them. As it was, I survived on the classics: Dr. Seuss.”

 

“’ _Big A, little a, what begins with A?’”_ Matt recalls, the blurry softness of an old memory framing the thought. He remembers his father reading it to him, a long time ago. “’ _Aunt Annie’s alligator, A, A, A.’”_

Foggy gives a laugh so bright, so clear and bubbly and joyful that it’s like hearing champagne.

 

“’ _Big B, little b, what begins with B?”_ Foggy continues, spritely. “’ _Barber baby bubbles and a bumblebee!’_ ”

 

Matt’s never heard an adult sound so enraptured at the idea of Dr. Seuss, but it’s a contagious feeling. Two letters are more than enough to prove they’ve both read the book, but the memories are leeching back into his mind, slow and sweet like molasses, and he can’t stop.

 

“’ _Big C, little c, what begins with C? Camel on the ceiling, C, C, C.’”_ He chants softly. It aches a little, remembering, but only in the best way.

 

Maybe Foggy can tell something of what Matt’s feeling, because he doesn’t stop him. He just joins back in with the D, and then Matt does the E, and before Matt knows it they’ve gotten through the whole alphabet. Matt can barely recall what he had for breakfast this morning. How did he remember a whole book like that?

 

“’ _Big Z, little z, what begins with Z? I do. I am a Zizzer-zazzer-zuz…”_

“Really? And here I thought you were my eye candy.” Matt freezes. Elektra. How did he not notice her coming? “I’m surprised at you, Matthew. Jilting me for the _help._ It’s scandalous.”

 

“I wasn’t.” Matt corrects her, still startled by the fact that she managed to sneak up on him. The only person who's managed that before was _Stick_. Matt must be off his game tonight. “I was just talking to Foggy.” And Foggy’s hardly the help. “You seemed busy.”

 

“Mm.” Elektra does not seem placated by this correction. “We’re leaving now. I actually spent the full two hours, aren’t you proud of me?”

 

Matt’s more surprised he was talking to Foggy for close to an hour. Usually Matt’s searching out the nearest emergency exit by minute ten. Reciting Dr. Seuss can’t have taken all that long, maybe five minutes, which means the rest of the time…huh. Time flies.

 

“Very proud.” Matt replies dutifully with only a hint of dryness. Elektra slinks one arm easily around Matt’s waist, casually proprietary, and Matt is once again floored by the fact that he’s at a fancy benefit as the eye candy for _Elektra Natchios._  Matt returns the gesture as confidently as he dares, half-expecting to be rebuffed for not doing it right. Elektra practically purrs though, seeming quite satisfied indeed, and Matt feels quite proud. “Thank you for dinner, Foggy.”

 

“Anytime, Matt.” Foggy tells him softly, and it doesn’t sound like just another polite thing to say. It sounds like Foggy means it. Anytime. Matt bites his lip against a smile. He’s on a date with Elektra Natchios, and he thinks he might have just made a new friend. “Get home safe, okay? Preferably in the car you came in.”

 

That’s an odd thing to say. Matt’s not quite sure what he means by it until Elektra is pushing him into the passenger seat of what sounds like a very sleek, very fast car—a car that they most definitely did _not_ come in, and a car that Elektra most definitely does not have the keys to either. It doesn’t matter. She hotwires it. She _hotwires_ the car, and Matt realizes for the dozenth time tonight that he’s in over his head.

 

He fastens his seatbelt and holds on for dear life.

 

* * *

  

Foggy’s not at all the parties Matt goes to, hanging off Elektra’s arm, but Matt’s grateful for every one Foggy does decide to slip into.

 

Elektra’s amazing, she’s magnificent, she’s a live wire, she's a hurricane, but she does have a tendency to disappear and leave Matt loitering awkwardly with a glass of alcohol, feeling like an outsider. Foggy helps with that, sticks like glue to Matt’s side the whole time and keeps him relaxed. Matt imagines that it’s something like what service dogs are for most people, except most people’s service dogs probably can’t quote Machiavelli at the drop of a hat. Foggy and his penchant for quotations are both endlessly amusing and eerily good at calming Matt’s nerves.

 

“Can I get your number?” And that’s not a quote, is it? “I mean, it’s fun to force-feed you canapés at parties and all, but it might be nice to talk over something that doesn’t come on these weird, bland little crackers. Maybe a greasy sandwich or something.”

 

A greasy sandwich has never sounded so good. Matt is sick to death of nibbling on crackers that a dozen other people pawed at before the tray got to him. 

 

“That sounds delicious.” Matt approves, stomach rumbling at just the thought. He doesn’t usually rattle off his number to near-strangers, but then Foggy’s not a near-stranger, is he? He’s been Matt’s savior at the last three parties. He’s a friend. He enters in Foggy’s number quickly enough, smiling at the idea that his rather paltry contacts list has gotten a bit longer.

 

“Be careful telling Elektra about this, yeah? I'm not dumb enough to tell you to keep it a secret, just...be very tactful and calm when you do bring it up. She’ll flip out, but she probably won’t take it out on you.” Foggy advises him awkwardly, and Matt frowns at him in confusion. Foggy sighs. “Because you’ll be hanging out with me, right? And everyone kind of knows—well, going by the look on your face you clearly _don’t_ know, but most people, including myself, know that…Elektra kind of hates me.”

 

“Hates you?” Matt’s not buying it. Elektra’s been a bit snappish with Foggy in the times Matt’s been around them both, only a few seconds each time before Foggy flees, come to think of it, but she didn’t seem to hate him. Did she? Foggy makes a sound of agreement that doesn't have hint of humor in it, and Matt finally starts to believe that this isn't another one of Foggy's idiosyncratic jokes. “ _Why?”_

Foggy’s a sweetheart. He’s so inoffensive from all angles that Matt’s stumped on what flaw Elektra could possibly find.

 

“We’re very different people.” Foggy offers cryptically in some attempt at diplomacy, possibly because he knows how loyal Matt is to Elektra. He won't tolerate her being badmouthed, even by a friend. “Not much in common. Well, only one thing in common that I can think of off the top of my head.”

 

“A love of literature?” Matt guesses, intrigued, and Foggy laughs softly and ruffles his hair. It’s such a sudden, close gesture, and Matt finds himself puzzled a moment later when he finally realizes he leaned _into_ Foggy’s hand instead of cringing away from it. He’s not used to unexpected touch, and he doesn’t usually welcome it, but this…he welcomes this.

 

“Yeah, sure.” Foggy mutters fondly, and Matt gets the distinct feeling that Foggy is just humoring him. “Love of literature and all the perks it can bring. So, I’ll call you. Or you’ll call me. Or Elektra will kill me. You know, whichever you can fit into your busy schedule first.”

 

Elektra’s not going to kill Foggy. Honestly, he has no right to sound so sober about the possibility. And really, Matt’s not even planning on asking Elektra in the first place. He doesn’t need her _permission_ to have friends. It's not keeping a secret, no matter what Foggy implied. It's just choosing not to bother Elektra with Matt's social calendar. Still, there’s a small part of him that’s curious and a bigger, more rational part of him that knows that monopolizing an editor’s time might lead to problems down the lane. What if Elektra needs Foggy to edit something and he’s out with Matt?

 

So he tells her, casually, after a rather long round of backbreaking sex, and he realizes that Foggy was right. Elektra hates him.

 

“That man is the epitome of all that’s wrong with the world. He has no backbone, no sense of humor, and no idea of what fun is. He thinks the world is all daisies and sunshine. It’s repulsive. We know better.”

 

Matt wonders what Elektra sees in him, that she already understands how much Matt knows better. It’s worrying, that a part of him he buried so deep could be so easily unearthed, but it’s also freeing. The world isn’t just daises and sunshine. It’s also fire and brimstone and pain and strife.

 

It’s a battlefield.

 

* * *

 

“See, I can’t believe you even recognized my voice.” Foggy tells Matt earnestly, a few weeks later and a dozen or so lunch dates in. “Most people get the print, and even when they get the audio it’s usually not the narrator they’re interested in. You know, unless it’s like Charlie Cox narrating  _Good Omens_ or something. Now _that’s_ a sexy voice. I was just…around, after the editing. Cheap. Pathetic enough to read porn out loud for a few bucks.”

 

“ _Porn?”_ Matt repeats, and he thinks he might have to hit his new (only) friend if it means defending Elektra’s honor. “Elektra does not write porn, Foggy. She’s—she’s a literary genius. There’s sex in it, certainly, but it’s so much more than that. It’s rich, vibrant, a whole world contained within the span of a few thousand words. It’s magic. It’s not _porn,_ and if you think that’s all it is then I have no idea how you graduated Cornell because you’re clearly brainless and soulless to boot _.”_

 

There’s no excuse. Foggy’s clearly read the books. He’d have to, unless he reads on autopilot without actually comprehending the material. Maybe that’s what’s going on here, because no one with any brains between their ears would think that Elektra writes _porn._

“…Wow.” Foggy sounds a bit blindsided by Matt’s vehemence, and Matt feels self-conscious, suddenly. He gets too passionate about things like this, he knows he does, but he can’t help it. The Murdock boys are hot-tempered men, but perhaps calling a cherished friend brainless and soulless was a bit too far. Perhaps. “Uh, I can clearly see that this means a lot to you, so I will just…manfully back down. Agree to disagree, okay?” Matt nods tightly. “No, honestly, man. I’m sorry if I offended you. God knows if someone started bashing Lovecraft in front of me I’d tear them a new one. I feel that. _Mea culpa,_ will not happen again.”

 

Matt considers him warily for a second or two, testing his options. It’s a chance to try and recruit Foggy to the side of good, but Foggy seems like he might be a hard sell. Besides, they were having such a nice lunch before and now Foggy’s promised not to press the issue. Matt should leave it alone.

 

“Well, I mean. _Lovecraft._ ” Matt offers finally, tentative. “You don’t think he went on a little long? For a suspenseful horror writer, he didn't offer much suspense. Even the descriptions of his abominations read like laundry lists. Tentacles, check.” Matt considers. “Actually, that’s about where the list stops. Just slap some tentacles on it and call it scary.”

 

“ _You._ ” Foggy hisses, and Matt considers dining-and-dashing for the first time in his life, because that hiss promises _murder._ “You have no appreciation for a well-paced horror story. You’re one of those people that wants someone dead in the first sentence or you give up. No patience. No appreciation for the art. I bet you opened your Christmas presents early.”

 

He says it with mock disgust, enough that Matt thinks it’s safe to wait for the check.

 

“I did, actually, but only if I’d been good all year.” His dad fudged the rules on that, Matt knows, but he still tried his best. “Now, if you want to talk horror, we need to bring the true lord of terror into play here…”

 

“King.”

 

“Poe.”

 

At the same time, with the same confidence. Matt frowns at Foggy thoughtfully. He hears Foggy tapping at his plate with his knife, probably contemplating stabbing Matt for his subpar literary choices.

 

“We’ll need at least dessert to fuel this war.” Foggy muses finally. “An army of literary honor marches on its stomach.” Matt nods, somber.

 

“And coffee, to revive the fallen.” He adds. “And then possibly a walk in the park to get you away from witnesses, just in case action must be taken.”

 

“Bring it on, Murdock.” Foggy hoots delightedly. “Excuse me, miss? Two slices of your finest cherry pie, a la mode, and two piping hot cups of joe. Matt, I want you to know in advance that I respect you as a person, but I am going to _decimate_ you. Just—nothing personal, man.”

 

“Nothing personal.” Matt agrees, and when their pie comes they raise their forks in some sort of salute, clink them together like a toast, and then dig in. “What you have to understand about Poe is…”

 

And the thing is, Foggy doesn’t _seem_ like the annoying, daisy-loving optimist that Elektra painted him as. He seems to be quite adept at digging into the darker themes of _Telltale Heart_ and _Misery._ He seems to get the obsession, the guilt and the pain and the passion. Maybe he hasn’t lived it, but he does more than well enough keeping up with Matt when it comes to dissecting it.

 

“I’m lucky Elektra didn’t take me as some sort of Annie Wilkes-type fan. I acted like one, practically stalking her through the party.” Matt notes, thoughtful.

 

“Pretty sure Elektra’s never read _Misery,_ so you’re in the clear. Actually, I don’t think she’s ever read King at all. Too mainstream.” He offers idly. Matt takes a moment to process this.

 

“She quotes him in _Rabbit in a Snowstorm_ _._ ” He points out, confused, and Foggy chuckles as though Matt's just told a very funny joke.

 

“Welcome to the wonderful world of SparkNotes, Matt.” He says with a tinge of affected awe, like he’s introducing some great prize behind door number one. “She knows her audience, and she knows her resources. I’ll give the woman props for that, at least. She's mastered the art of giving people exactly what they _think_ they want.” That doesn’t sound like the Elektra Matt knows. Her books gave Matt exactly what he did need for years upon years. They gave him a life path, a passion, a reason to be better. _She_ gave him that. “Besides, she gets by. She likes classic tragedies, if you’re looking for something to read together. That’s…pretty much all she likes. I told you, names set a tone. You’re a noble hero, and Elektra’s…well. I’m sure you’ve read Sophocles. Did you know there’s a whole mental complex named after her?”

 

“Foggy." Matt purses his lips, disapproving of this (admittedly a little amusing but still rather petty) jab, and Foggy laughs again. He's always laughing around Matt, isn't he, but never seems to be laughing  _at_ Matt. It's a comforting kind of background noise that Matt finds himself growing quite fond of. 

 

“Sorry, sorry. Don’t bash your lady friend’s name even in good fun, and don’t bash any books with her name on them. Got it.” Matt nods, appeased once more, and Foggy’s quiet for a moment as he thinks. “Can I bash Charles Dickens? Hypothetically great, realistically overrated—and long-winded. That happens when you get paid by the word. Agree?”

 

Matt’s not too eager to dwell on Elektra’s namesake himself, so he lets it slide.

 

“We’ll need more coffee for this.” He decides firmly. “To go, please!”

 

It’s a mile-long meandering walk down the street later that Foggy asks if Matt wants to go bowling.

 

“Brett’s going to be there, and he’s been dying to meet you.” Brett’s Foggy’s police friend, the one that he wants Matt to meet because it’s always wise to have a friend on the force, just in case. Matt tries not to think about why Foggy thinks Matt might need a friend on the force one day, pushes away the memory of squealing tires and burning rubber and riding shotgun in a car that wasn't his. “We’re going to have teddy bear bumpers since I can’t bowl worth a damn, so you can pinball the whole thing by ear and you’ll probably be better than me. Brett knows the owner, so we’re talking free, warm beer all night long, maybe even some stale nachos.”

 

It sounds horrible and awful and cheap and cheesy, and Matt wants it so much that it aches.

 

“I, ah, promised Elektra I’d come over.” He can’t leave his girlfriend(?) like that. He…Oh, but it’s brilliant! “Elektra would love to go bowling.” Matt tells Foggy, excited. “I’ll ask her, and we can all go together.”

 

There is a lingering moment of silence, and Matt finds his hopes steadily sinking the longer Foggy takes to respond. All the eager light in Foggy's demeanor seems to have drained, and Matt regrets but he also  _knows_ this is a good idea. Whatever bad blood is between Elektra and Foggy, Matt is certain that he can clear it away if they just give him a chance. They're both such wonderful people, different though they may be, and they have more in common than they think. Matt adores them both, for one thing, and for another...well, they both like books? Different books, but books nonetheless, and that's plenty to work with.

 

“Matt…” Foggy sighs, and Matt can hear the periodic crunch of an empty Styrofoam cup being shredded, probably by Foggy’s nervous fingers. “I don’t know if you remember when I mentioned the whole ‘Elektra hates me’ thing, but, uh, to recap: Elektra hates me. You have not seen her in full-hate mode yet, mostly because I run away with my tail between my legs every time she shows up, but…it’s not exactly my idea of a good time.”

 

“I’m sure she’ll be on her best behavior. I’ve told her all about you, and I’m sure she understands that she was wrong about you now." Or at least she will after Matt does a better job convincing her. "Let her come tonight and I’ll show you. You’ll get on like a house on fire.” Matt knows he’s begging, but he needs this. He needs to be with Elektra because he promised, but he _needs_ this just as much.

 

“Third-degree burns, property damage, and one of us ends up in the hospital? Probably me?” Foggy offers, dry. Matt shoots him a quelling look. “…Fine, invite her. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

 

Matt beams at him.

 

“It’ll be perfect, Foggy. Just wait.”

 

* * *

  

It’s rather fascinating to behold, really. Matt’s used to sly insinuations and lobbed verbal barbs from Elektra, it’s just the way she’s built, but there’s usually a note of indolent affection in her voice that keeps them from cutting too deep. Sometimes Matt feels like a mouse caught between a cat’s clawed paws, but he knows it’s all in good fun.

 

With Foggy, though…

 

Snide asides about Foggy’s hair, his weight, his bowling skills, his eating skills, his intelligence—it just keeps going, an endless onslaught of veiled criticism and sweet poison. Elektra genuinely does seem to hate him, an odd sort of disdain tinged with something close to glee every time Foggy spills beer on his shirt or misses a pin or stutters. It’s a dynamic that reminds Matt of high school, the popular bully tormenting the awkward nerd just because it’s fun, and it makes Matt highly uncomfortable because he used to be that nerd. He still is that nerd, most of the time.

 

It should come as no great surprise when Brett pulls Matt aside a few games in, under the pretense of getting more beer.

 

“Okay, you need to get your girlfriend out of here.” Brett’s tone is jovial, but forcefully so. “Because you seem like a great guy, really you do, but Foggy looks like he’s about a second away from bursting into tears so if you could just leave now, that would be great.”

 

Matt’s immediate reaction is, to his great shame: ‘Why do _I_ have to leave? I was being good. Foggy wants me here.’ He’s lucky he bites his tongue quick enough to avoid saying it, because it’s whiny and rude and childish and it implies that he wouldn’t mind if Elektra was kicked out, just so long as he got to stay. That’s hardly loyal.

 

“Right. I’ll just—she’s having a bad night.” She must be.

 

“Sure.” Brett sounds unconvinced. “Really, Matt. Great to meet you. Catch you later, man.”

 

It’s a rote farewell, a polite dismissal, and Matt takes it for what it is. Elektra seems all too happy to leave, although she does kick up a bit of a fuss because it's the perfect excuse to. It’s nothing Matt can’t handle, though he regrets that it doesn’t give him much time to say goodbye to Foggy. He manages a brief squeeze of Foggy’s shoulder and a heartfelt smile before Elektra tugs him away.

 

“I don’t know how you put up with them.” Elektra complains sullenly as they make their way down the street. “They’re so _dull._ That’s not you, darling.”

 

“Foggy’s not dull.” Matt argues, unhappy with this assessment. It’s clear who Elektra meant by ‘they’. “He’s wonderful, actually. I don’t understand how you can dislike him. I mean, you hired him as your editor _and_ your narrator. He must have done something to impress you.”

 

Elektra laughs, and it’s not a gentle sound.

 

“Not nearly as much as you have.” She coos, patting his cheek, and Matt’s not certain if he should be offended by her almost patronizing tone or mollified by her complimentary words. “Come on now, let’s stop talking about silly things. I’m not tired yet, which means you’re still on the clock. Entertain me, Matthew.”

 

“Matt.” He corrects her absently, but it’s a lost cause. He knows that. She’s only started calling him ‘Matthew’ more now that she knows it rankles him. “What do you want to do? Not many places are open this late.” Not unless you know the owner.

 

Somehow, they end up at Fogwell’s, and they end up breaking the glass of the door to get in instead of just picking the lock. The sound of the shards hitting the ground is jarring, hypnotic, like the sound of the bell before you step into the ring.

 

They _do_ step into the ring, and Elektra knows him and she sees everything and how could Matt give this up? How could he even have considered staying in the warm bowling alley where he has to pretend he couldn’t get a strike every single time? How could he have entertained the thought of bumping into Foggy, letting the man steady him with a familiar hand on Matt’s hip and a bright laugh, asking Foggy to help him with his follow-through, gentle fingers on the back of his neck as Foggy tilts his head down and tells Matt to lean into it, just breathe out and let go and do your best, because you're brilliant and your best is amazing, Matt, Matt—

 

“Matthew.” Fingers on the back of his neck, but not gentle, tugging hard on the short hairs at his nape and making him wince, jolting back into the moment. “I’m sorry, am I boring you?”

 

Elektra’s tone is light, but there’s a hint of dangerous annoyance there. Matt shakes away all thoughts of the bowling alley and smirks at her.

 

“Only boring people get bored.” He reminds her, singsong, and he gets back in the rhythm of things.

 

Later, he’ll think it’s a bit peculiar to have had sex at a childhood haunt, one he remembers his father practically living in, but right now it just feels hot, tight, right. How could he lose this, having someone look at him and know him, having the attention of such a brilliant mind on him, only him?

 

He tells Elektra about his father and Roscoe Sweeney, rather unusual pillow talk, but there aren’t any pillows here, just hard mat, and he can’t not say these things.

 

“You shouldn't have lost him like that.” Elektra murmurs afterwards. “People like Sweeney really are monsters, aren’t they? Some people, Matthew, deserve to die. Most, really. They’re toxins.”

 

Matt smiles at the passion in her voice, the sense that she wants to avenge his loss, and he strokes her hair and curls closer.

 

“’ _People are cruel, but they want very much to be kind.’”_ He says quietly. “ _’And we’re selfish, you see. We’ll always choose wants over reality.’”_

 

Elektra gives a short, surprised burst of laughter.

 

“Lord, that’s trite.” She mocks, pinching his shoulder rather hard, harsh enough to leave another bruise. “Did you read that off a fortune cookie?”

 

Matt grins at her, charmed by her hidden humbleness.

 

“I read it in your book.” He corrects her warmly. She’s so modest, deflecting like that. “ _Guilty As Sin,_ Chapter 11.”

 

Elektra makes an exaggerated gagging sound, and Matt frowns.

 

“Right, now I remember. To be fair, I think _I_ stole it off a fortune cookie, probably when I was drunk. It’s a miracle I sold a single copy.” She moans, amused despite herself. “I can’t believe people buy into that.”

 

“Well, I certainly did.” Matt tells her, slightly wounded. There’s modesty and then there’s derision, and Elektra’s toeing the line. He tries another smile. “It’s a beautiful sentiment. One to live by.”

 

“Oh, please, Matthew. Don’t fanboy again. It’s cute, but I think we’re a little past that now.” Elektra begs, but it’s more of an order. “I write what sells. People buy my fiction because it’s _fiction._ Not reality.” Matt’s new smile falters just like the last. “Don’t pout, you look like I shot your dog. Come here.”

 

Matt kisses her back, of course he does, and he presses her obediently back onto the mat when she slides a leg between his, but he can’t stop thinking about the quote. It really has been a sentiment to live by, for him. It’s gotten him through some of his hardest days, the hope that men can be bad but Man is good. He needs it, and he’d been sure Elektra felt the same.

 

_Some people deserve to die. They’re toxins._

 

That’s not right.

 

…Right?

 

* * *

 

It’s something of a balancing act.

 

Matt would spend all day with both of them if he could, but he can't. Elektra is willing to do activities with Foggy, but she refuses to soften her temper around him. As a result, Matt has to divide his time between Foggy and Elektra just to keep Foggy from being bullied 24/7. He doesn’t like choosing between the two of them even though he knows that he needs to. It feels like a betrayal, no matter which one he picks at any given time.

 

And they’re so _different._ With Elektra it’s electricity and danger and the tang of blood and the sharp bite of alcohol splashing on an open wound, sliding down his throat, it gets inside his body somehow and that's all that matters. With Foggy it’s long afternoons listening to _Good Omens,_ drinking sweet tea and lazing around in the patch of sun that shines through the window and warms the floor of Foggy’s apartment. Matt feels like he can almost see the dust caught in the sunshine, floating and catching the light like diamonds, and he listens to Charlie Cox’s rather posh rendition of Terry Pratchett and Foggy’s frequent, languid commentary and he feels…

 

“Why do you have such a small apartment?” Matt asks curiously, smiling blissfully into the heat of the sunshine. “You must be able to afford a nicer place, with how Elektra’s books sell.”

 

Foggy sighs in tepid agreement, and there’s a sleek shush of cloth as he stretches out a little more next to Matt on the floor. Two perfectly good couches, and here they are lying on the floor like cats, basking.

 

“It pays okay. Mostly I stay because I like my crummy place. It’s clean and cozy and comfortable. It’s my hobbit hole, you know? We don’t all need penthouses, Mr. Murdock.”

 

“You make it sound like I’m an eccentric billionaire.” Matt complains. Honestly, he doesn’t think his apartment’s anything special. If he’s brutally honest, in fact… “I like your place better.”

 

It’s not something he likes to admit to, but it’s true.

 

“Nah, your place is objectively nicer.” Foggy assures him generously. “You just need to add some homey touches, really make it your own. Maybe get some plants, a piece of art or two, and you’ll be golden.” He gasps in affected shock. “No, on second thought, _don’t_ make your place nicer. Then you won’t want to come over here anymore.”

 

“I will _always_ want to come over here.” Matt denies firmly, stretching a bit into the warmth of the sunshine as he says it. He means every word. “I’d starve otherwise.” He can cook just fine, and had previously thought that he was actually rather accomplished in the kitchen when he mustered the energy to bother, but things taste _better_ when he eats them at Foggy's place. It doesn't matter which one of them cooks, or even what they're making. Things that Matt has made hundreds of times at his own place taste a hundred times better when he eats them with Foggy. Matt thinks most of that is probably down to the company.

 

“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, I guess.” Foggy notes idly, and Matt grins at him in agreement. “So, we’re done with Pratchett. Any other books you want me to lend you?”

 

Foggy’s taken to audiobooks like a fish to water. He's started storing them up like an apocalypse survivor hoards canned food, and he’s always willing to share them with Matt. It helps that they have similar tastes in literature. Matt’s reading more than he has since college, just for fun, and he loves it.

 

“I don’t suppose you have _Shadows in the Glass_ on your computer somewhere?” Matt wonders innocently, and Foggy groans and smacks him, lighter than someone swatting at a fly. Matt catches his hand in mid-motion as Foggy comes round to smack him again, laughing. “Come on, I hear the narrator is dreamy.”

 

“Go to hell, seriously.” Foggy whines, tugging weakly on his trapped hand. Matt doesn’t let go, just in case Foggy tries to smack him again, and Foggy doesn’t try very hard to get free. “You know I don’t buy any of the books I narrate. That would be weird. My _voice_ is weird.”

 

“Your voice has launched a thousand shippers.” Matt corrects him merrily, and Foggy gasps.

 

“You read the fanfiction.” He indicts with great relish and so small amount of glee, and Matt blanches and shakes his head sharply. Foggy gives a giddy giggle. “Oh my god, you do read the fanfiction. Matt, _why?”_

Matt glares at him, shaking Foggy’s trapped hand to and fro in some semblance of a threat. Foggy doesn’t seem cowed. In fact, he can’t seem to stop laughing.

 

“I don’t read the fanfiction.” Matt tells him hotly. “I have maybe peeked into a few forums, and people talk about it, but I don’t _read_ it.” Much.

 

“Right, right.” Foggy’s still chuckling. “Wait. Matt, do you _write_ fanfiction?” Matt’s glare turns downright venomous, and Foggy erupts into a new fit of laughter. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sure any story you wrote would be fantastic, I’d read the shit out of that story, really.”

 

“I don’t write fanfiction.” Matt bites out, honestly this time, but Foggy’s still laughing so Matt takes drastic measures. “How about you? You’re always scribbling things down. Maybe _you’re_ secretly penning out Elektra Natchios fanfiction and you’re just trying to shift attention off yourself.” Foggy stops laughing at that, a little too fast. Matt realizes with a furrowed brow that Foggy’s wrist has gone taut in his grip. “…. _Do_ you write Elektra Natchios fanfiction?” Matt asks, lost. He feels a bit bad now, throwing it out like an insult. Foggy did the same, but Matt hadn’t taken it seriously. “Because that’s fine.” 

 

“I think only fans write fanfiction _.”_ Foggy offers, subdued. “Can you let me go now?”

 

The polite thing to do is to say yes. Matt just grips tighter and shakes his head.

 

“No, what did I say?” He wonders, bewildered and bereft. The warm atmosphere of before has ebbed palpably, although Matt can still feel the heat of the sun shining down on them. “You’re upset.” Foggy tugs his hand backwards in an attempt to break free, rather sharply. Matt tightens his grip just a little more, as much as he can without hurting Foggy. He doesn't want to hurt Foggy. He _never_ wants to hurt Foggy, but it seems that somehow he already has. “Come on, don’t do this. Don’t hide from me. What’s wrong?”

 

Foggy doesn’t answer for a few moments, long enough that Matt’s debating asking again or just letting Foggy’s hand and this conversation drop all at once.

 

“I like to write, okay?” Foggy offers finally, defeated. “And it sucks because I know I’ll never probably get published, and when you compare that to Elektra’s undeniable and frankly infuriating success, it’s…it's kind of a sore subject for me.”

 

“Oh.” All this time, Matt had assumed Foggy was doodling silly shapes and tiny cartoons for something. “So when we’re eating out and you’re writing on napkins, you’re actually…”

 

“I’ve got a scrapbook.” Foggy admits, forlorn. “I put the napkins in when I’m done with them, to keep them tidy and in one place. I’ve got a couple scrapbooks, actually. A napkin anthology. It’s probably the most pathetic thing in the world.”

 

Matt shakes his head, loosening his grip on Foggy’s wrist only when he stops struggling. Foggy seems so beaten down by this, and Matt never had any idea.

 

“It’s not pathetic.” He comforts earnestly, running a gentle thumb over Foggy’s pulse point in what he hopes is a calming movement. Foggy really does have the softest skin, especially this vulnerable patch along the inside of his wrist. It makes a great contrast the pen callouses on his fingers that Matt loves so much. Foggy makes a soft sound of uncertain denial, and Matt presses on. “Hey, it’s not. I’ll bet you’re a great writer.”

 

“I…” Foggy can’t seem to get much more than that out, so Matt just smiles and keeps rubbing. At least it doesn't seem to be making anything worse, and it feels quite nice on his end. “I’m not that good. I mean…napkins, you know? Hardly the next great American novel.”

 

But Matt’s heard Foggy speaking, and he knows better. Foggy’s eloquent in a way that few people are, funny and bright and talented at turning a phrase. Matt is sure that every word on those napkins is gold.

 

“What do you write? Poems, fiction, joke books? Porn?” Foggy huffs in reluctant laughter at Matt's weak joke, and Matt feels inordinately proud of himself for coaxing that laughter into existence. Foggy should always be laughing, or at least in a laughing mood. 

 

“Anything. Everything—except porn.” Foggy amends himself dryly when Matt quirks a brow. “Mostly just what I’m thinking at the time, silly stuff. Stupid stuff.”

 

“You’re not stupid, so I don’t see how anything you write could be.” Matt chides softly, moving his hand up without even thinking about it to trace the callus on Foggy’s finger. He must write on every napkin he can get his hands on, paper too, maybe even his own skin when he’s desperate enough. No one gets a callus like that unless they’re writing every day.

 

“Thanks, Matt.” Foggy whispers weakly, and just the tips of his fingers fold in to curl over Matt’s hand. Matt swallows, throat feeling parched even though he’s had three glasses of sweet tea this afternoon already. He feels like he hasn’t had a drop to drink in years when Foggy touches his cheek so, so gently with his free hand, still just the edges of his fingers and Matt feels a callus there too. Foggy’s ambidextrous, it seems, and somehow that fits. He must be very good with both of his hands. Very good. “You know, I kind of adore you.”

 

Matt’s not quite sure what to say to that. There’s nothing in Foggy’s voice that makes it seem like he’s waiting for a reply. It’s just an absent sort of observation, as casual and certain as talking about the weather right outside, and it makes Matt’s cheeks go hot. He wants to say something back, something warm and witty and perfect, maybe something smooth and suave that will make Foggy blush too.

 

“I like your hands.” Not so smooth or suave, but it’s enough. Foggy’s fingers twitch and then curl closer, one hand cupping Matt’s cheek and the other curving over Matt's palm and those calluses just. Just. _Just._

 

“I like your everything.”

 

Matt probably shouldn’t be able to feel if Foggy’s blushing, but he’s close enough that Matt can feel the gust of Foggy’s breath and the air _feels_ hotter, flushed with promise and a shy sort of happiness. Maybe it’s just the sun soaking into Matt’s skin, but maybe it’s not. Foggy probably blushes like the sunrise, pink and slow and sweet and breathtaking, the kind of sight people would willingly sacrifice sleep just to get a glimpse of.

 

“You…” Matt stops, clears his sere throat and tries to swallow down the sudden lump there. “You should show Elektra your notes. She’s been published, she might be able to give you a start—“

 

Cold. Maybe it’s just Foggy rolling away from him, pulling free in one sharp motion that Matt wasn’t expecting. Maybe it’s just the loss of body heat, the sudden absence of a warm sunrise blush close to his side. Maybe it’s just getting dark out, the sunlight fading away.

 

Maybe Foggy’s a sunset, not a sunrise.

 

“Okay, two things. One: Elektra wouldn't spit on me if I were on fire, although I'm pretty sure she'd happily spit on me the rest of the time. She doesn’t want to help me publish a book. Two: I would rather gnaw off my own hands than ask her for a favor. So. Not happening.” His tone is brisk and somewhat chilled, like the nighttime air long after the sun has set. “You’re leaving, right? Dinner with the girlfriend, good for you. Let me get the door for you.”

 

Foggy’s bare footsteps are already padding away, but Matt’s still on the ground. He feels struck down, like the wind’s been knocked out of him. It’s a bit like when Elektra’s landed a good punch during a spar, except Foggy used just his fingertips, just the barest brush of flesh on flesh, and then he _took it away_.

 

Matt sits up slowly, rubbing at a bruise on his chest that isn’t there.

 

* * *

 

Matt thinks it’s probably not a good thing to wish that your girlfriend acted more like your best friend.

 

Just thinking it sounds sleazy. It’s not that Elektra isn’t an amazing woman, it’s just that Matt finds it hard to catch his breath around her. At first he’d thought this was because Elektra’s very presence left him breathless, but now he’s starting to realize that he _literally_ cannot catch his breath around her. She runs him ragged, day in and day out, and Matt’s not opposed to some healthy exercise but even he has limits. They’re always either fighting or fucking, and Matt finds that the comfortable twinge of his body after a good workout rapidly evolves to a constant, bone-deep soreness. There’s always a new bruise blooming as an old one fades, from a biting kiss or a well-placed punch during a spar, and Matt’s honestly having trouble remembering which is from which. It’s not abuse, not when it’s a battle he eagerly joins, but sometimes he wishes they could fight a little less.

 

It’s not just physical, the way Elektra wears him down like waves beating on an island. Elektra’s mind seems built for war in a way that even Matt’s barbed-wire brain can’t match. She’ll act so open and charming and sweet to an old friend of her father’s, and then she’ll turn right around and tell Matt how the man likes to sleep with younger men, won’t his wife be so happy to see the pictures? She hates rich people, hates poor people, hates her family and her family’s friends, hates her old martial arts instructor, hates the cheaters and the crooks and the liars and the weak and the people who salt her French fries too much or judge her for eating two slices of cake for dessert. She hates Foggy. Sometimes Matt wonders if she hates Matt too, if she just hates him where he can’t hear it.

 

So it’s talking about the evils of mankind, something Matt can discuss at length, and then it’s sweeping statements about the past and future that make Matt feel breathless again because he can’t tell if she’s serious. She talks about making him a kept man, buying them houses in Santorini, San Sebastian, maybe even Paris for when they’re feeling cosmopolitan, and he’ll never have to work again. 

 

Matt _likes_ working. He tells her this, reminds her how much Nick Nocturne and _Guilty as Sin_ changed his life and made him love his job, and can’t she understand that? And Elektra groans.

 

“I hate that book, I swear to God.” She tells him, aggrieved. “You never shut up about it, and it's really not very becoming, drooling like you do over every word. I don’t date groupies, Matthew.”

 

Matt shrugs, sheepish, and reels her into a kiss.

 

“I know, I know.” He murmurs, apologetic. “It’s just—your work is a part of you, a big part. Is it so awful that I worship how brilliant you are?”

 

He hopes not, because he doesn’t know if he can stop. He keeps his old CD copies of _Guilty as Sin, _Rabbit in a Snowstorm,__  and _Shadows in the Glass_ all tucked away under his bed, too shy to ask for an autograph, too wary to even let Elektra see them. He doesn’t want her to think he’s a _groupie,_ so he doesn’t talk about the books and ask what Nick Nocturne’s motivation was, becoming a lawyer and an ace detective when he had such horrible experiences with people. Matt became a lawyer so he could be like Nick Nocturne—who was Nick Nocturne trying to be? Did Nick ever grow to love the job as much as Matt does, ever wondered why he never thought of it before and thanked God that he thought of it in time, or is Nick just paying the bills to fund his nocturnal crusade? Elektra hates talking about her books, so Matt bites his questions back and Elektra bites _him_ back in all the best ways, a fitting reward.

 

He can't bury the questions forever though, so he saves the fanboying for Foggy instead, who seems nonplussed by Matt’s enthusiasm but still gamely engages him on it. Elektra’s not much of a book person, really, much preferring more…carnal pursuits much of the time, and Matt respects her preferences. They still have plenty to talk about, and Matt has Foggy when he wants to talk literature. Foggy never smells like carnal pursuits, or at least not like he’s pursuing carnal matters with anyone else, and Matt has begun to think that Foggy’s one true love might be fiction. That’s soothing, after a long night with Elektra, going to Foggy's place and sitting back and sipping a fresh cup of coffee with Foggy across the table from him, letting his mind get a workout instead of his body.

 

Of course, Foggy must have _some_ urges, because he occasionally smells like aloe vera body lotion and musk, but he’s never mentioned his interests to Matt. He likes British voices, Matt knows that from their adventures with Charlie Cox’s _Good Omens_ —which also implies that he’s open to men, at least British ones. So, British voices and/or literature buffs, the geekier the better. Matt’s never been to Britain, but when it comes to literature and geek culture—

 

“Matthew!” Matt lets out an embarrassingly unmanly yelp when Elektra pinches his thigh none too gently and sends him plummeting back into the present. “At this point I’d have better participation from a sex doll. Pay. Attention.”

 

“Yes, dear.” It doesn’t do to show weakness in front of Elektra, so Matt blows the whole thing off like it was a power play on his part and leans back in. He’s living the dream, so why can’t he stop daydreaming?

 

It’s only later, much later when Matt’s sticky and exhausted and sore, that he dares to try it. Elektra’s sprawled out next to him, practically radiating smugness, and her guard seems as down as it ever will be.

 

“Can I try something?” He begs, and she hums in amused interest.

 

“Already? My goodness, Matthew, you’re a beast. When you said you recovered quickly, I underestimated you.” She huffs, pleased. Her mood seems to have suitably recovered from his earlier inattentiveness, and Matt hopes that it's recovered enough. “I’m too comfortable to do anything though. If you want it, you’ll have to do the work.”

 

Matt grins to hide his nervousness, shaking his head.

 

“No, not _that.”_ He assures her honestly. Nobody recovers that quickly, and that’s not what Matt wants. At least, it's not the only thing that he wants. Not now. “Just…stay still. Let me try something.”

 

She hums again, in lazy agreement this time, and Matt reaches out carefully. He starts out at the cheek, just leaves his fingers there for a moment—very smooth skin, Matt doubts Elektra’s had a pimple in her life—before moving on.

 

He’s been dating Elektra for close to five months, but he’s never tried to see her like this. He'd known she was gorgeous just by witnessing other people's reactions to her, but that had never really mattered much to Matt. He’d always thought that her looks didn’t matter, it was her mind that he was captivated by, but he should have been just a tiny bit curious, shouldn’t he? Or even by accident, he should have touched his girlfriend’s face enough to have a good idea of every inch, but they don’t really…do this. Simple touch isn’t really on their agenda, but Matt’s starting to think he needs it there.

 

“Ugh, your hands are soaked with sweat and god knows what other fluids.” Elektra reproaches, nose wrinkling under Matt’s touch. “Can’t this wait until you’re cleaned up?”

 

“No.” Matt tells her quietly, desperately. “No, I don’t think it can. Please.”

 

Elektra sighs gustily against his palms, but settles down with only a few more choice complaints. Matt keeps going, cautious, waiting for the spark.

 

Elektra _is_ gorgeous, no great surprise there. Matt already knew that from the thousands of fans panting after her, the heads turning so fast when she enters a room that Matt hears their stiff necks crack. She’s strikingly attractive, and now Matt knows it for sure, but knowing it doesn’t _change_ anything. Matt doesn’t feel closer to her. Elektra’s skin is exertion-warm under his fingertips but there’s no new heat flushing to her cheeks from the tender touch. Matt can’t imagine Elektra blushing, actually, even as he forms this new picture of her in his head with the stubborn chin and aristocratic cheekbones and the arched brows.

 

“Enough already.” Elektra decides finally, pulling away, “Is manhandling faces a new kink of yours, Matthew? Should I be concerned?” She asks archly, and Matt hesitates.

 

“No?” He says, and it’s too uncertain, almost timid. Almost guilty. “ _No._ I just thought it might be nice to try something new. Slower.”

 

Elektra chuckles and pats his cheek like he’s a particularly dumb puppy, the way she’s wont to do, and Matt swallows reflexively just in case. No lump in his throat, no desertlike dryness to his mouth, no compulsive urge to lick his lips to make sure they're hydrated just in case...just in case, what?

 

“Slow? Us?” She goads, contemptuous. “Never.” But maybe sometimes, would be nice. “Perhaps you should leave the foreplay to me, darling. Your bedroom creativity clearly kicks in a bit after the starting gun. Full marks for your mouth last time, by the way. Top notch.”

 

“It wasn’t…” It wasn’t foreplay. It was supposed to be intimate without being ‘intimate’, just _once._ Matt doesn’t understand. This isn’t what it felt like yesterday, shallow breathing and skin tingling and a bubble of sunlight bursting bright under Matt’s ribcage. “It wasn’t the best idea. Sorry.”

 

“Don’t look so down, darling.” Elektra purrs consolingly. “Here, I think I’ve recovered enough. Let me show you how it’s done.”

 

And she does, and Matt’s even sorer and more satisfied than he’s ever been but it wasn’t what he wanted. It was the wrong kind of spark, like sticking a fork into a power outlet instead of the dizzy shiver of electric emotion tickling gently along his skin. It worked yesterday. It did. Maybe it only works when Matt’s the one being touched, a direct current. Elektra _did_ touch his cheek, but it might be different if she lingered, caressed, adored.

 

“What are you thinking?” Elektra whispers, surprisingly soft, and Matt takes a moment to try and catch his breath but he can’t. He can’t breathe.

 

He can’t _breathe._

 

* * *

 

Matt listens to Elektra’s books again over the weekend, soaks in every word, but it’s not enough. He _knows_ all the words, knows them by heart, and it’s like gold leaf flaking off a jeweled idol.

 

“She never writes when I’m there.” Matt confides to Foggy over another of their late weekend lunches of curry and rice. “She uses her laptop, but never to write. And there are no pencils, no notepads, nothing. That’s unusual, isn’t it? For her, I mean?”

 

“Some people don’t like writing in front of an audience. They’re shy.” Foggy offers absentmindedly before setting his spoon down with a definitive clack. The sudden skittering of a pen on yet another napkin makes Matt think that Foggy’s not one of those writers. They go out to restaurants based on their _napkin_ selection, just so Foggy can restock. Foggy says he likes the thickness of the ink on the absorbent material, the seeping boldness of the words. Matt thinks he just likes free paper. Matt himself has started testing the napkin quality at new eateries even when he's dining alone, often slipping a few samples of the higher-quality finds into his pocket to share with Foggy later. Foggy always promises to use Matt's special serviettes for only the best thoughts, and Matt always insists that all his thoughts are best thoughts, Foggy always laughs a bit more quietly than he usually does and says thank you in a way that always makes Matt's chest ache. 

 

“Elektra’s not shy about anything.” Matt declares with great surety, shaking away all thoughts of quiet laughter and aching hearts. Foggy snorts in agreement that's a little too vehement, but Matt can't bring himself to scold his friend. Matt hesitates, and then finally shares what has become one of his worst fears of late. “Sometimes…sometimes I think I give her writer’s block. Like I’m weighing her down.”

 

The scratch of Foggy’s pen stills abruptly.

 

“ _Writer’s block?”_ Foggy repeats, incredulous. Matt bites his lip and nods. “Are you _kidding_ me? Matt, you’re—“ His voice cuts off as suddenly as his pen did. “Forget it. You’re not the problem, I promise.”

 

“But I might be.” Matt shoots back immediately, all his worries bubbling up in a wave of near-nausea. “She never writes around me, she never wants to talk about her work, she gets _angry_ when I even mention it. She gets frustrated, and then she wants me to distract her from that frustration with…well. The point is, I _distract_ her. I’m the problem, or at least I’m one of them.”

 

“You’re not.” There’s not a shred of doubt in Foggy’s voice. “You're so totally wrong. You’re anything but a distraction.” Matt scoffs, uncertain and unwilling to believe. Foggy's his friend. He always says nice things, even if Matt doesn't deserve them. “No, really. You’re…” And then he stops _again._

“Foggy, what were you going to say? Tell me.” Matt presses, because Foggy really can’t leave these statements hanging open so tantalizingly like this every time. Matt wants to know what he is, or at least what Foggy _thinks_ he is. “Please?”

 

Foggy stays strong for a good ten seconds, and then he sighs and caves.

 

“You’re like walking poetry, you know that?”

 

…What?

 

“What?”

 

“That sounds weird, but it’s true. You are prime fodder for inspiration. I mean, just looking at you eating a spoonful of rice, I can think of maybe ten short stories off the top of my head.” Ten? Really? Matt didn’t think he ate rice in a particularly inspirational way. “You’re a muse. And muses are great, but they don’t write the books themselves. If Elektra’s not writing, it’s because she doesn’t have anything to write yet. That’s not on you. I certainly hope she’s not trying to _blame_ it on you.”

 

There’s a new tone in Foggy’s voice, something almost close to a threat, but it's not towards Matt. Actually, Matt kind of thinks it’s towards Elektra. Foggy’s usually so sunny-tempered, it’s surprising to hear any sort of menace in his speech. He never fights back when Elektra taunts him, and Matt had thought that maybe Foggy just wasn't a fighter by nature. Now, though, he realizes that maybe Foggy's just not a fighter for himself. For others, though, for  _Matt,_ Foggy seems more than willing to step into the proverbial ring. That's...

 

“Of course she’s not blaming me.” Matt denies quickly. “Elektra would never do that. She’s lovely. We’re very happy together.”

 

“Great.” The threat is gone like it was never there, and Matt's head is left spinning in its wake. “Then I’m happy for you.” Foggy's tone is as balmy as always, but it rings false to Matt's trained ear. There's something hollow to it hidden there underneath, a lack of sincerity that is usually quite rare in Foggy's words. He's so honest all the time, but not about this.

 

“You don’t sound very happy for me.” Matt can't help but call Foggy out on it, a bit hurt. He’s been trying to ignore Foggy’s lukewarm responses, has been for weeks, but the fact is that when Matt talks about Elektra, Foggy just sort of shuts down. “Does my dating Elektra bother you?”

 

To be fair, he’s not sure that what he has with Elektra is ‘dating’, at least in any normal sense. They have sex, drink tequila, get in trouble, have sex to celebrate not getting put in jail, drink more tequila…but it’s good. It’s great. Elektra’s all fire and heat, almost burning him, but Matt’s addicted to it.

 

“No.” Foggy squeaks. He _squeaks_ , and that would have been enough of a clue even without the leap in his heartbeat. “Not at all.”

 

“Foggy.” Matt chides, annoyed. “Don’t lie to me. Is it because you two work together?”

 

“No.” That’s not a lie, at least. “Look, I…I’m really happy for you, Matt, as long as _you’re_ happy. I just worry…she’s wild, you know? I don’t want you to get in too deep. I don’t want her to break your heart.”

 

Oh. Matt softens, reaching over to grasp easily at Foggy’s hand. There’s something comforting about holding hands with Foggy. His hands are always so steady, and Matt finds great peace in tracing the calluses of Foggy’s fingers and the soft skin of his wrist. There’s a pen in Foggy’s hand when Matt gets there, and Matt remembers Foggy scribbling away on that napkin like a madman. Matt works around it, keeps the pen snug between their hands instead of letting it drop. It feels natural there, right. Foggy is meant to be holding a pen.

 

He wonders if Foggy was writing about rice.

 

“You’re sweet, you know that?” He murmurs, and Foggy squeaks again, something endearingly caught between a ‘meep’ and a ‘nope’. “But you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not going to get my heart broken.”

 

There’s a breath or two of quiet, and then Foggy gives a short burst of laughter, just one tiny wheeze of it like it’s being forced out of him.

 

“Okay.” Matt’s not sure Foggy believes it. “Okay, good. Broken hearts are…are not so fun. ‘ _Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love_.’”

 

Matt laughs, delighted.

 

“Charlie Brown? You’re quoting Charlie Brown at me?” He teases. “You’re really scraping the bottom of the literary barrel here, aren’t you? Did you run out of Shakespeare?”

 

“’ _Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste; wings, and no eyes, figure unheedy haste. And therefore is Love said to be a child, because in choice he is so oft beguiled._ ’” Foggy sighs it out like it’s both a lament and a psalm, a song to sing at a funeral and a wedding all at once. “There, Shakespeare. Are you happy?”

 

Happy? Happy’s not quite the word. Enchanted, maybe. Spellbound. Awestruck. He forgets sometimes, the power of Foggy’s voice. As much as Foggy is the one who chatters about the best way to dress a hotdog and hold a slice of pizza, he’s also the one who held Matt’s imagination captive for eight years with just his voice. Matt’s not sure if he’s conditioned to love Foggy’s voice from repeated exposure, or if it’s just that wonderful normally, but sometimes Matt thinks he could listen to Foggy reading the _phonebook_ for days. Listening to him reciting Shakespeare is like stepping right into a midsummer’s night dream.

 

Matt has a sudden, lurching need to go listen to  _Guilty as Sin_ for the millionth time. He just listened to it yesterday, but he thinks now he was looking for the wrong thing to bring that gold back. Not the words. The voice. He should have been listening to the dips and falls, and consonants and cadence, the _song._

He should have…

 

“Can I try something?” It’s an echo of his words to Elektra in bed, and Matt pushes the uncomfortable thought away as hard as he can.

 

“Sure, go for it.” Foggy doesn’t seem overly concerned, and Matt should feel odder about doing this in a public place but Foggy’s easy attitude is catching. No one’s going to look. No one’s going to care.

 

Foggy gives the tiniest exhale when Matt uses his free hand to stroke Foggy’s cheek, and Foggy’s hand jumps a fraction under Matt’s on the table, but he doesn’t move away. He just gives that tiny little sound, ‘oh’, like this makes total sense and he’s only just realized it, and he’s right.

 

It makes total sense. Foggy’s staying perfectly still for him, not fidgeting at all, but Matt can feel that sunrise blush timidly flickering under his fingertips—he can _feel_ it now, no sunlight to blame for the spark of heat that flares to life in Matt’s chest, the butterflies that flutter nervously in his stomach. This is what he wanted, holding hands and careful caresses. The tantalizing heat of a blissful blush. This. He needed…He needs…

 

“I need to get ready for the party tonight. Please say you’re coming.”

 

He waits to feel the slow spread of an answering smile on Foggy’s face before he pulls his hand away and he savors the warming rub of the callus when Foggy threads their fingers together with comforting security and tugs Matt to his feet. He can feel the spark and it’s not burning him.

 

He feels breathless, but he can breathe.

 

* * *

 

Matt hates galas.

 

It’s funny, because that first time he’d felt like some sort of post-modern Cinderella, wearing worn wingtips instead of glass slippers. By now though, he’s sort of sick of it all. Everyone smells too strongly of perfume and cologne and cloying words and lies and money. The music is bland, the food isn’t filling, and the collar of Matt’s suit itches around his neck. His new tie feels like a noose, not old and loved like his father’s. It’s the latest fashion and he hates it.

 

Elektra didn’t tell him that there would be dancing.

 

It’s not that Matt hates dancing. Actually, he loves it. It felt like another martial arts style to master, and so master it Matt did. Elektra doesn’t seem to have expected that—there’s a tiny part of Matt that believes Elektra still sees him as a uncultured bumpkin with shiny old shoes, and that stings—and it’s always a victory when he manages to surprise her.

 

They dance a tango that gets people whispering, and a laughing Elektra plucks a rose from one of the many vases and presses the stem to Matt’s mouth, and it’s like something out of an Elektra Natchios romance novel.

 

It’s only halfway through, when Matt’s smile stretches a little too much, that he realizes the rose still has thorns. One catches on his lip, and he gasps at the sudden pinprick point of pain. The rose falls, and Matt licks his lips. Blood.

 

A moment later, Elektra’s pressing the flower back to his mouth, laughing again when he grimaces and pulls away.

 

“Come on. Beauty, power, love—all the best things come with pain, Matthew. You have to embrace it.” Matt shakes his head, because that doesn't sound quite right. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little blood, darling.”

 

And he’s not, of course he’s not. He’s not afraid of anything. He opens his mouth and bites down, doesn’t even flinch when another thorn catches him right at the corner of his mouth, and he keeps dancing. It is beautiful and powerful, and it comes with pain, and Matt bleeds for it and he welcomes every drop. When Elektra finally takes the rose and kisses him, licking the blood away, he welcomes that too. Beauty is pain and blood is love. That’s Elektra’s world. That’s the world Matt wants to live in. It is. It is.

 

“Much as I’d like to spend the whole night licking you clean, I think you might need to apply some pressure.” Elektra notes idly, and she’s not out of breath. Matt’s panting, lost, desperate, but her heartbeat has never been so steady. “Go tidy up, darling. I’ll be waiting.”

 

It’s only as Matt’s walking on unsteady legs to the restroom that he starts hearing the whispers again. They made quite a scene, didn’t they? Matt thinks of Elektra’s indolent pride at causing scandal wherever she goes, and imagines what it will feel like to have his face plastered across the tabloid magazines in the morning. The media darling Elektra Natchios and her newest boy-toy, tearing up the dance floor like a hurricane. Matt will be famous, in his own five-minutes-of-fame way. He’ll be something that every single gossipmonger in New York City can talk about freely—his name, his face, his secrets, everything. That’s the price of dating someone famous. That’s the price.

 

Matt tries to catch his breath, tries, tries, tries, and he’s still trying when Foggy finds him.

 

“Oh, Matt. Look at you.” Foggy sighs, warm and sad, why is he so sad? “Come here, let me see you.”

 

But that’s the problem. Matt doesn’t want people to see him. His face, his name, his secrets—those are _his._ No one else has the right to take those from him, not unless Matt gives them. No one.

 

There’s the sound of the restroom door clicking closed, and then the sound of running water. A moment later, Matt feels the first press of a damp cloth to his mouth. No, not a cloth—a simple paper napkin. Matt breathes out, deeply, surprised that he actually can. He _did_ give Foggy his face, his name, and so many of his secrets, and Foggy gives him napkins to clean up Matt’s messes. That's how they work. 

 

“Thanks.” Matt mumbles shakily around the soggy napkin, but Foggy tuts and presses harder over Matt’s mouth.

 

“Hush. Talking will stretch the cuts, and that it will only make the blood want to keep flowing, yeah? Just stay still for a tick.” Matt considers nodding, then decides to opt for an ‘OK’ sign with his fingers instead, just to be sure. “So, that was quite a show.”

 

Foggy was watching. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. For some reason, despite it being the best dancing Matt’s done in years, Matt…doesn’t like that. It makes the butterflies in his stomach turn back into caterpillars, squirming uncomfortably in his belly and making him feel ill. Matt raises an eyebrow in question, ignoring the caterpillars, because it doesn’t sound like Foggy’s done talking.

 

“That’s not what love is, you know.” Foggy tells him quietly, and Matt’s shoulders tense. “What she does to you? That’s not love. That’s what you’re telling yourself, right? You say it’s passion, but you’re wrong. You can be passionate without punishing the other person for it.”

 

Matt blinks once, slowly. He doesn’t understand. Foggy sighs, casting about for the right words.

 

“Love’s so much more than that. Love’s not just the grand gestures and fiery speeches. That’s the _least_ important part, that’s like the icing on a really good birthday cake, but it’s just the icing. No one wants to eat a bowl of just icing on their birthday, you know? It would make you _sick_.”

 

Matt blinks again. He does feel kind of sick, now that Foggy mentions it. The caterpillars writhe harder.

 

“I’m not making any sense, am I?” Foggy groans, and Matt shrugs, apologetic and ill. “Okay, let’s see. Uh, love isn’t… it isn’t burning your tongue on hot coffee. It’s the feeling that somebody went to the trouble of _bringing_ you that coffee, just the way you like it, and they were in such a hurry to get it to you and see you smile that it never had time to cool down before you took a sip. Love hurts sometimes, but it should never be because the person you love _wants_ it to hurt you. It should always be hot coffee, not…not this.” Foggy dabs at the swell of Matt’s lower lip, where the first thorn cut. “Never this.”

 

So Foggy thinks that love is not a rose with thorns. It seems that centuries of poetry have gotten things wrong, if Foggy is to be believed.

 

“Don’t give me that smug look, roses are just fine, thorns and all.” Foggy chides, and Matt wonders when his face became so easy to read. “That doesn’t mean you should _aim_ for the thorns, though. That's just stupid. And there are other flowers too, you know, that smell just as nice and sometimes they’re even _useful,_ for medicine and stuff. They may not be as pretty, or as romantic, but they’re still worth loving.”

Matt smiles at that, wide enough that it makes the cut on his lip sting and he hisses. He’s still smiling.

 

 _“’Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them.’”_ Matt leans back far enough to murmur the words. Another book he remembers reading with his father, in fact.

 

“Exactly!” Foggy agrees excitedly, and then he curses and presses the napkin back over Matt’s mouth. “And now you’ve gotten it bleeding again. No talking, even to woo me with the classical prose of the immortal wordsmith, Eeyore.”

 

Matt nods agreeably. This is actually quite entertaining.

 

“But you get the point, right?”

 

Matt thinks he’s got the gist. Love is coffee and cake and wildflower weeds. Foggy’s in a creative mood though, Matt can tell, and he takes a certain innocent sort of pleasure in hearing Foggy talk, like a child listening to a storybook. Instead of nodding, he gives a lackadaisical shrug, knowing it will egg Foggy on. He wants to hear more.Right on cue, Foggy clears his throat, and Matt readies himself for another Winnie the Pooh quote or maybe some more fun food analogies.

 

“So…lust. Lust is like swallowing the ocean, you could spend your whole life sipping from someone and it would never be enough, salt water burning on your tongue and making the thirst worse, every second, every _moment_ that you’re with them, it’s like you’re drowning. You’re drowning, and you just keep diving down and drinking anyway. I—well, I’m sure you know what lust feels like.”

 

Matt nods, stunned. He’s relatively certain that’s not a Winnie the Pooh quote. That was…

 

“And lust is _great,_ I agree, but there’s a reason people don’t actually try to drink the whole ocean. It’s not so good for you or your kidneys, in the long run.” He concludes, wry. “But love? Matt, lust is drowning. Love is learning to breathe underwater.”

 

Oh. Matt draws in a sharp breath, and his chest hurts like he’s been diving for a long time and only just coming up for air, but the world still feels hazy and wobbly around him, like he’s standing underwater in some sun-warmed lagoon and letting the waves rock him. Underwater. Breathing underwater.

 

“Right-hand corner.” Foggy whispers absently, and Matt can’t even manage a minimal response to that, still reveling in the fact that he can breathe again. “You got a cut on the right corner of your mouth. Do you remember Mrs. Darling, from _Peter Pan?_ A sweet, mocking mouth, and she hid a kiss in the corner there that no one could touch, no matter how much they wanted to.”

 

Matt reaches up with shaking fingers, and sure enough, there’s just the briefest flash of pain, wetness against the pad of his index finger when he touches the corner of his mouth. Blood.

 

“Yeah. Right there.” Foggy says, gentle and warmer than the blood on Matt’s fingers, warmer than the blush he can feel on the nape of his neck, so warm that Matt’s on fire from it but he’s not burning. “A little kiss.”

 

Blood is love and Matt tastes blood but it’s salty like the ocean and the ocean is lust. Lust is the ocean and blood is the ocean so then blood is lust. If blood is lust then love is…love is…

 

Matt reaches out, blood on his fingers, lust on his fingers, and he touches just there, right at the corner of Foggy’s mouth. Right-hand corner. Sweet, mocking mouth.

 

“Just a little kiss.” Matt breathes back, he can _breathe_ and lust is the ocean but love is breathing underwater, just a little kiss.

 

“Isn’t this cozy?” Matt draws back like he’s been burned. _There’s_ the burn, finally.

 

“Elektra.” He croaks, and he wasn’t doing anything overtly wrong but he still feels guilty, caught like a boy with his hand in the cookie jar.

 

“I thought you said fondling faces wasn’t a kink of yours, and yet here we are. Are you practicing your technique so I’ll like it more next time?”

 

Elektra says it like a throwing star, an insinuation flung to hurt, and it hits its mark. Matt finches and closes his eyes, the shame spreading like a fever, but the noise _Foggy_ makes is worse. It’s a sound of almost physical pain, and Matt understands that. He echoes it, somewhere deep inside where Elektra can't hear it and use it against him later.

 

“Foggy was just helping me clean up.” It sounds pale and pathetic, the sort a thing a cheater says to his wife when she finds him in bed with the maid. ‘We were just tucking in those corners, and then we tripped into each other and our clothes fell off.’

 

“You look clean enough to me.” Elektra decides, tone frosty. “People are asking to meet my dashing dance partner. You’ve made a splash with the rich and infamous, Matthew. It won’t do to keep them waiting.”

 

Matt’s lip is still sore, and he thinks his hair is a mess and his eyes must be wild. His skin feels prickly with sweat, cooling uncomfortably after the exertion of the dance, pooling right under the back of his collar and making it itch even more. He can barely string a sentence together. He’s not fit to be talking to anyone.

 

“Right. Right.” He nods slowly, dazed.

 

“Hold on. You’ve still got a little blood—“ Foggy starts, startled.

 

“I’ll take care of him, Franklin.” Elektra’s voice could freeze fire. “Why don’t you run along and—“

 

“And what? Fetch you some _Macallan_ again?” Foggy guesses darkly, and Matt is distantly surprised by the amount of bitterness in Foggy's voice. Did that really hurt him so badly? It was so long ago, and Matt's apologized ten times over. Somehow he doubts Elektra has done the same. “No thanks. Matt should be heading home anyway. He’s exhausted.”

 

“He can handle it.”

 

“He can’t even stand up straight! He hasn’t eaten anything but a shrimp puff tonight but he’s had six glasses of champagne and two shots of tequila on a near-empty stomach. He’s drunk and he’s tired. He needs water and a dark place to crash, not more _dancing.”_

“ _He can handle it_.”

 

“He’s _hurt._ Do you not get that? His mouth is all cut up. He needs help.”

 

“He. Can. Handle. It.” Elektra hisses, and the ice in her voice burns worse than fire ever could. “Matthew is a big boy, aren’t you, darling? He’s just getting warmed up.”

 

“Matt, no. Let me take you home.” Foggy begs. “I’ve got a cold water bottle and some Advil with your name on them.”

 

Devil and the deep blue sea, Matt thinks vaguely. He’s caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea, except the Devil is his idol and the deep blue sea is fresh water, bottled water, not the ocean and salt burning his tongue.

 

Caught between an idol and a spring water sea.

 

“I think…” Matt swallows, the guilt rising in his throat like a wave of bile. “I think…I…”

 

And Matt promptly leans forward and vomits all over the new, real deal $2,000 wingtips Elektra bought him for tonight. Apparently the guilt rising like a wave of bile was significantly more like a wave of bile than Matt previously assumed.

 

“Well, you’re not going to be cutting the rug in those dancing shoes any time soon.” Foggy points out, wry, but his hands are gentle when they press a clean paper towel to Matt's burning mouth. “Looks like it’s water and Advil for you after all, Cinderella.” Matt groans in woeful agreement.

 

The party ends not with a bang, but a whimper.

 

* * *

 

In terms of care, Foggy and Elektra take very different approaches.

 

Elektra calls up a private limo to get them back to Matt’s apartment, and she manages to sneak them past all the partygoers so eager to meet her without setting off a single shutter of a camera lens.

 

Foggy’s more tactile. He gets Matt’s shoes and socks off, cleans Matt's feet off and then slips his own shoes and socks on Matt’s feet instead, and he guides Matt with a gentle hand on his shoulder and the soft sound of Foggy's bare feet on the expensive marble floors. He lets Matt rest his head on his shoulder the whole ride home too, despite the fact that Matt probably still has some lingering bile and spit on his chin, and he tucks Matt into bed when they get upstairs and cleans him up without a word of complaint.

 

Elektra’s not quite as comfortable with illness. That makes sense. She was an only child with maids to take care of the mess, while Foggy has a younger sister and two parents who worked full-time. He’s used to playing nurse.

 

Foggy’s combing his fingers through Matt’s hair in just the right way, enough to make Matt want to purr from it. When his fingers catch on one of the knots in Matt’s hair, he tugs softly, teasingly, not enough to hurt.

 

“You know, in _King Lear_ when Edgar wanted to disguise himself as a madman, he tied all these little knots in his fair—elf-locks, they called them, because it was a great trick of the fairies to give someone a bad hair day. So Edgar ties some knots in his hair, and everybody assumes he’s nuts. What does that say about you, huh? Nutty as a fruitcake.” He’s never sounded so fond.

 

“Does that really…surprise you?” Matt rasps out, dry in tone and in hydration. He coughs once, twice, and then Foggy’s helping him sit up in bed, pressing that promised bottle of water into his hand. It tastes like finding an oasis, but Foggy only lets him take a sip before slipping the bottle from his hand again. “Elektra?”

 

“She stepped outside to call the caterers.” Foggy tells him lightly, and Matt frowns in puzzlement. “To get them all fired for feeding you bad shrimp puffs, I think.”

 

“Not…their fault. Accident.” Matt hates how hoarse his voice has become. He sounds old, tired, weak.

 

“Yeah, well. Sentence first, verdict afterwards—at least in Elektra Land.” Foggy offers, discomfited. “Just be glad it’s not your head on the chopping block.”

 

Matt is glad, he supposes, but it’s still not fair to the caterers. Matt should have been paying more attention. He should have been able to tell something was off with his food, but he’d been so dazed all night, running from one thing to the next. He’ll talk Elektra down, fix it later.

 

“More water?” He begs, and Foggy hums kindly.

 

“Sip _slow,_ okay. No rushing into it like you always do.” Matt nods obediently. “You start sipping and I’ll get you the extra blanket from the couch. Be back soon.”

 

He touches Matt’s cheek before he goes, and even under all the misery and the furry taste on his tongue, Matt still feels the spark. He sips the water and tries not to think about it while Foggy leaves.

 

He’s still sipping when the front door clicks open and Elektra’s sharp heels click inside.

 

“Is he done dry heaving?” Elektra asks, all business.

 

“Yeah, he’s good. On water already, but sometimes that leads to a relapse. Water feels better than bile though, coming up.” Foggy murmurs back, quiet and Matt thinks he’s trying to pitch his voice low so Matt doesn’t hear and worry. “He’ll be okay.”

 

There’s a moment of silence, and Matt would give a great deal to see the look Foggy and Elektra must be exchanging.

 

“You’re fired, obviously.”

 

Matt is grateful he hadn’t chanced a sip of water, because he knows he would have choked on it, which would have lead to coughing, retching and relapse. _Fired?_

“Obviously.” Foggy agrees serenely, like this is a foregone conclusion, an obvious step in any reality ever. “Tea?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

And then it’s quiet, totally peaceful, and Elektra slips into Matt’s room while Foggy puts the kettle on.

 

“You can’t fire Foggy.” Matt commands as soon as the door slides shut. “That’s crazy. He’s a brilliant editor.”

 

“It’s New York, darling.” Elektra points out idly, running a hand over his blanketed leg. “There are a dozen brilliant editors hawking their wares on every street corner.”

 

That’s true, probably, but none of those dozens are Foggy.

 

“But who’s going to narrate the audiobooks?” Matt tries, lost. “Foggy’s the only one, he’s the only voice that’s right. Without him it’s just…”

 

He can’t imagine it. Even when he’s thinking of his favorite passages in his head, it’s always Foggy’s voice reciting them. Matt can’t separate  _Rabbit in a Snowstorm_ from Foggy Nelson in his mind.

 

“Well, that’s easy then. I just won’t write any more books.” Elektra announces lazily. “I was thinking of taking a sabbatical anyway. Maybe a nice long one in Santorini.”

 

The insinuation is clear, but the hand edging up his blanketed thigh is clearer. Matt’s obviously not up to anything right now, and some hazy part of him wonders if this is how Elektra rationalizes touch, never a comfort and always a conquest. That’s only a hazy part though. The rest of his mind is just skipping like a broken record, stuck on a single phrase.

 

_I just won’t write any more books._

 

“You can’t stop writing.” Matt pleads, and he feels sicker at the thought of this bleak future than he did when he was ruining his new shoes. “You can’t. You and Foggy can work something out, I know you can. You won’t even have to be in the same room, you can get another editor and send the finished copy to Foggy so he can narrate it.”

 

It’s the only logical option.

 

“Matthew, your brain is clearly still fevered and your comprehension may be impaired, so I’ll say this next part very slowly. I do not want to write another book. Ever.” She leans over him, the curtain of her hair falling like a wave of jasmine and honeysuckle, and normally Matt appreciates the scent but it’s a bit strong for his stomach now. “So what it really comes down to is this: do you love me for a silly little book I wrote a lifetime ago, or do you love me for  _m_ _e?”_

 

She whispers it in his ear, bites down on the lobe of it as a sharp sort of punctuation on the last word, and Matt shivers.

 

“Okay, I got Earl Grey, Gunpowder Green, English Breakfast and wow, Matt, you are clearly feeling better, huh?” Matt imagines what this must look like, Elektra whispering in his ear, her hand on his thigh, but Foggy must know better. Matt was vomiting his guts out only a few hours ago. He’s not going to hop in the sack when he can barely sit up long enough to swallow water. Foggy must know that. He has to. “Or not. I think you just turned green. Is that a creative way of asking for green tea?”

 

Matt shrugs, nods, shakes his head—he does some motion with his head, he’s not sure which.

 

“Something milder than gunpowder might be beneficial.” Elektra offers acidly, and Foggy doesn’t take the bait like Matt would.

 

“Tea. Earl Grey. Hot.” Foggy says it all very gravely, a clumsy grasp at a British accent, and Matt gives a rough little cough of a laugh despite himself.

 

“Make it so, number one.” And then Foggy’s laughing too, much more freely than Matt can, laughing for the both of them until it’s easier for Matt to join in.

 

“And there’s the kettle, if you two are quite finished.” Elektra prods, not amused. “Matthew, drink your tea and do think about what I said.”

 

And just like that, the laughter’s not so hard to swallow down. It’s a lot to think about. There’s not enough tea in the world. No more books. No more New York. A beautiful sabbatical in Santorini.

 

No more Foggy.

 

* * *

  

Elektra wants to leave for Santorini by October. She says she hates the chill of New York winters, the bitter slog through sleet and snow. Why suffer through all that when you can just fly away like a bird, somewhere warm and fun?

 

Foggy’s excited for the autumn and the winter, of course. It's just another way that he and Elektra are antipodes. He tells Matt excitedly about the jack-o’-lanterns he’s planning to carve with his niece and nephew, the new snow boots he just bought that make him feel like a rugged explorer, the rough copy of a new children’s book by Karen Page that he’s looking over and hoping to push into print in time for the Christmas holidays.

 

Matt hasn’t mentioned Santorini. He just can’t seem to find the right time, and every time he thinks he’s found it Foggy will tell him brightly about the snowball fights he and Matt are going to have, the epic snow forts they’re going to build, the gourmet hot cocoa that Foggy’s mom taught him how to make for the holidays, the kind you stir with a _candy cane_ , Matt, it's so fancy. Matt loses his voice every time, caught up in the spell of Foggy’s voice and the web of possibilities he spins, bright threads of a brighter future.

 

“So, is the children’s book all you’re working on?” Matt fails entirely on acting nonchalant, but he worries. Foggy huffs good-naturedly, patting at Matt’s arm.

 

“Despite that Elektra thinks, the world does not revolve around her. I’m hardly destitute without her patronage.” He reminds Matt sunnily. “Besides, she’s been coasting on book tours and publicity for a while anyway—I can’t even remember the last time I actually edited something for her. It’s not that big of a change, except that I’m not one of her designated wranglers at parties anymore.”

 

“You don’t _go_ to parties anymore.” Matt points out evenly, smile stiff. “Ever.”

 

He’s been to three already, after getting sick, and Foggy hasn’t been at any of them. It’s been torture, getting through the long minutes of stilted conversation with people who seem torn between pitying him for his handicap and hating him for getting to leave the room with Elektra. The tango incident made the lowest gossip rags, enough that no less than ten people have recognized him on the street, and it seems to come up in every single discussion he has at these galas.

 

The rich and famous can’t get enough of their gossip, it seems. Matt’s only silver lining is that more scandalous things are happening every day. As long as he stays out of trouble, it will blow over soon. Now if only _Elektra_ wanted to stay out of trouble…

 

“I thought that might be awkward for you.” Foggy admits diplomatically. “I mean, now that Elektra and I have officially ‘broken up’, it would be a bit weird. Besides, it’s not really my scene. I prefer the three B’s: books, buddies, and baked goods. Sometimes the fourth B of bad ideas makes an appearance, yes, but only during B family reunions.”

 

“You should write your own alphabet book.” Matt offers mildly. “Dr. Seuss could use a proper successor.” Foggy giggles.

 

“No one can replace Dr. Seuss. That’s blasphemy.” Foggy scolds him through his laughter, and Matt grins unrepentantly. “No, besides, I’m not really good at…children’s…books…”

 

He trails off, but Matt doesn’t think it’s from embarrassment. Actually, there’s a flurry of movement, the sound of rustling cloth and then a second later, the scribbling of a pen starts.

 

“Another idea?” It’s the third one today. Matt thinks a good portion of Foggy’s salary goes towards buying good ballpoint pens and cheap napkins in bulk. Foggy gives an absent little hum that Matt takes as agreement. “Is this one going to make it into the anthology?”

 

Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes Foggy mutters to himself, snorts, tears the napkins up or throws them in the bin as soon as he’s done writing. A few times he’ll only bin them later, after they’ve been riding around in his pockets for a few hours. Foggy is a very harsh critic of his own work, it seems.

 

“This one…” Foggy still seems distracted, the scratch of his pen never faltering. “The newer volume, maybe. We’ll see.”

 

“There’s a new volume?” Matt asks, delighted. Another soft hum. “Could I hear some?”

 

He’s never asked before. He thinks part of that is from being so hesitant about talking to Elektra about her work—it’s been beaten into his brain that writers don’t want you to bug them about their writing. Part of it’s just respect for Foggy’s privacy too, of course. Foggy’s hardly a shrinking violet. If he wanted to share, he’d share. He’s writing almost every time they’re together, so it’s not as though he hasn’t had chances.

 

So Matt really should leave it well alone, but the thing is that he listened to the last chapter of _Shadows in the Glass_ last night and the only thing he could think of the whole time is that they filtered out Foggy’s breathing, dulled out the sound so that his words were clearer and more polished. This works well on the audio, but now that Matt’s heard Foggy’s breathing he can’t just pretend it’s not there, and he doesn’t want to.

 

Foggy’s breathing makes it _better._ If Matt wants that sound, he needs a live recitation.

 

“Of the new stuff?” Foggy asks, voice odd, and Matt nods. “God, no.” Matt flinches and ducks his head. He knew asking was a bad idea, but Foggy didn’t need to sound so horrified at the idea. Did he? “It’s not that I don’t want you to hear it.” Foggy hurries to adds, remorseful. “It’s just that it’s nowhere near ready for _anyone_ to hear, and you’re not anyone. You know?” Matt doesn’t know, but he thinks it’s a compliment. He nods. “But if you wanted something, I have the older stuff…hold on.”

 

Matt waits patiently as Foggy wanders off towards his bedroom, although he does busy his hands by plucking up the pen from the coffee table. The metal is still warm from Foggy’s fingers, Matt notes, and he rolls it between his own fingers and savors the feeling for as long as it lasts.

 

“Klepto.” Foggy mutters fondly when he reenters the room, and Matt smirks at him and tucks the pen behind his own ear, taunting. “So, you really want to listen to this? Because it’s probably really weird to anyone who’s not me. I mean, it’s gibberish.”

 

“I like gibberish.” Matt urges eagerly. Foggy mutters another few small protests, and Matt waits patiently until he runs out of stream and starts flicking through the pages with admirable enthusiasm. Swish-flick-swish-flick, until finally Foggy seems to decide on a place to stop. 

 

“Okay. Remember that you asked for this.” Foggy warns. Matt nods, smile wide. Foggy clears his throat. “If morals are relative, then a moral compass will only get me lost if I follow it. There is no true moral north. I’d rather have a moral clock, even a broken one. Even then I am assured to be correct at least twice a day, without even taking into account the fortuitous switching of moral timezones…”

 

And there’s the magic, there’s the gilding being painted back on the idol, this is what Matt needed. He loses himself in Foggy’s voice, and he wonders not for the first time if he’s made a terrible mistake. He’s spent all this time listening to Elektra’s books and assuming that he was in love with the words, but here’s Foggy reading off notes from a _napkin_ and Matt’s more entranced than ever. Matt’s never read the Braille versions of the books—he’s not even sure they exist, and he never bothered to check. He never wanted them, because the best part of reading an Elektra Natchios book was having the narrator read the book to him.

 

The best part of an Elektra Natchios book was Foggy Nelson.

 

* * *

  

Elektra wants to go on a date.

 

To be fair, Elektra doesn’t want to go on a date because she _wants to go on a date._ She wants to go on a date to prove to Matt that he’s being spoiled and overly romantic when he wistfully mentions wanting one. And to Elektra’s credit, she’s right about the date. It’s a disaster, but it also proves a lot.

 

They do the classic dinner at a woefully expensive restaurant, the one that requires a suit and tie to get in the door and at least three quality name-drops to get a table. Elektra reads off the dishes she thinks he’d like the most, and although she teases him it’s not much different than if the waiter had done it. Matt listens, he decides on the steak and potatoes, Elektra mocks him for being so stereotypically male, and that’s that. The steak is juicy, the potatoes are crisp, the salad dressing is bright and the greens are fresh. Matt knows all this because Elektra tells him, pointedly, when he takes too long to compliment the food, but Matt doesn’t _taste_ it.

 

It all tastes bland to him, like chewing on wax.

 

The conversation isn’t much better. Matt is fully aware that Elektra can be a dazzling conversation partner, he’s witnessed it first-hand, so he thinks that he must be the problem. It’s the things he wants to talk about, mostly.

 

“Everything has to be a debate to you.” She explains, exasperated, when Matt asks what’s wrong. “Not a fair and bareknuckle verbal boxing match—a _debate,_ like we’re in a courtroom. And you never let me win like a gentleman should.” Elektra likes vying for victory. She warned him to never go easy on her in the ring. Why should this be different? “It just is, Matthew. You like to argue about the most…tedious things.”

 

“I was just telling you about the case I’m working on.” Matt protests. “It is, by nature, a debate. I can’t change that. And it’s not tedious. It’s the first case I’m leading.”

 

Elektra tuts, dispassionate.

 

“And with your considerable talents, I’m sure it’s all but won. You’ve clearly worked out the defense already. Why do you need to keep rehashing it?”

 

Matt frowns at her, pausing in cutting another bite of his steak.

 

“Because it’s fun?” He throws out, bemused and a little annoyed despite himself. “Elektra,  _Guilty as Sin_ is all about the legal process and the many, many rehashings involved. I didn’t think you’d mind.” Foggy loves discussing Matt's cases and discussing law in general, and he always seems to find it just as fun as Matt does. Matt had hoped that Elektra might be the same, especially in light of her novels. 

 

“Oh, and now we’re going to talk about _my_ work.” Elektra cuts in, an exaggerated pep to her tone. “Haven’t you read the rules, Matthew? Dates don’t talk about work, and they don’t talk about exes either.”

 

She puts a peculiar emphasis on ‘exes’, and even though Matt hasn’t mentioned a single ex tonight, he still feels a twinge of trepidation, like he’s stepped on a land mine and he’ll have to step off it sooner or later.

 

“So what do we talk about?” Matt tried books, but there’s only so long you can talk about Greek tragedy without feeling a little tragic yourself. Discussing philosophy and morality quickly goes the same way as Greek tragedy—Matt ends up rather morose, doubting the good in humanity, and Elektra is tickled pink, sometimes even turned on by the topic. It doesn’t leave much to talk about.

 

“We could talk about Santorini.” Elektra offers slyly, and Matt swallows. “Or we could talk about what we’re doing for dessert.” They haven’t gotten the dessert menu yet, how are they supposed to…? “There’s a friend of my father’s—Al Marino, odious man—that lives nearby, and I’m sure he’s got a few nibbles for us to steal.”

 

Matt chews slowly, considering the banked excitement in her tone.

 

“And is Mr. Marino home right now?” He asks mildly, and Elektra scoffs. “Did he leave you a key, perhaps ask you to water his plants while he was gone?”

 

“Matthew, don’t play coy.” Elektra chastises impatiently. “It’s not as though we’ll be robbing Mother Theresa, don’t give me that look. He deserves it, and it will be good for you. A bit of exercise, a pinch of danger, a chance to work on your abysmal B&E skills. A real treat.”

 

A treat. Breaking and entering a house is supposed to be a treat? Matt thinks about what Foggy would say, what Foggy would say about _everything_ that Matt’s been doing with Elektra. Foggy’s never done anything worse than jaywalking. He’d never understand B&E.

 

It is a terrifying truth that Matt is rapidly becoming the kind of person that he’d warn Foggy away from.

 

And he thinks of what Foggy’s idea of a treat might be—gearing up a new audiobook or podcast for them to enjoy, making fresh popcorn with real butter and then spending half the night tossing pieces into each other’s mouths instead of listening to the story. Matt can almost taste the butter and crunch of the kernels now. Maybe Foggy would whip them up some of that gourmet hot chocolate out of season and they'd drink it down together and the air around them would be thick with chocolate and peppermint and laughter and...

 

“I can’t do this.” It hits him all at once, but he's never been more certain of anything in his life. He couldn't go back even if wanted to, and he doesn't want to. He wonders if Julius Caesar felt like this when he crossed the Rubicon. 

 

“Really? So it’s fine if it’s Fogwell’s, a place you actually _like,_ but as soon as it’s someone who deserves it, you get cold feet?” Elektra’s voice is frosty. “Al Marino is not a good man, Matthew. He’s exactly the sort of person who has this coming.”

 

And Matt’s sure Elektra’s right, Al Marino must have done something wrong, but the spectrum of ‘wrong’ in Elektra’s mind is too all-encompassing. Al Marino might have killed a man, but he could just have easily have cut Elektra off in traffic and been rude about it. It’s impossible to tell. No true moral north, Matt recalls, and he thinks that he might have been following the wrong compass this whole time. 

 

“Not just the…dessert.” Matt amends hoarsely. “All of it. Santorini, the sabbatical, the dinners, the parties—Elektra, I can’t do this.”

 

Matt steps off the land mine.

 

“You can’t do this. _You_ can’t do this?” Elektra repeats, each time with more contempt. “You seemed perfectly happy to _do this_ before—ah. I see. It’s because I’m not writing anymore, isn’t it? You really are just a fanboy, and now that I’m not indulging you I’m suddenly not the girl you knew, right? The magic’s gone, the bloom’s off the rose.”

 

And the gold has faded from the idol.

 

“It has nothing to do with your writing.” Matt can say that honestly. Maybe it never was. Maybe it was liking a book and loving its narrator and then getting swept up in the tornado that is Elektra Natchios before he could see the truth about loving and liking and which one fits best. “This just isn’t working, between us. You know it’s not. We fight all the time, the only interests we share are no-holds-barred sparring and pioneering sex positions, and Elektra? I don’t _like_ Greek tragedies. “ He’s never dared say it before. “I like Shakespeare’s comedies, and Terry Pratchett, and C.S. Lewis. I like…”

 

“You like vapid stories with impossible endings.” Elektra translates tonelessly. “You like  _Guilty as Sin_ _._ You think you’re living a hero’s tale, don’t you, just because you’re a lawyer? Do you really think you can help anyone that way? The law’s a tool but it’s a weak one, and it will let you down every time. If you want real justice, you can’t afford to be the hero.”

 

“So why did you _write_ it?” Matt asks, maddened. “Why would you write something so ‘vapid’ and put your name on it, if it disgusts you so much?” _Why would you let me hope that I’d found someone who understood?_

And for a second Matt thinks that Elektra’s going to dodge the question again, the way she always does. Then she exhales once, sharply.

 

“I’d gotten expelled from university. Father wasn’t pleased.” She begins stiffly, and it's such an odd non sequitur that Matt finds himself speechless. He waits for more.  “He said that all I could do was destroy things, never create them. I wanted to prove him wrong.”

 

And that seems to be the extent of the story, because she stops speaking. Matt stares towards the calm, concise clink of silverware as she continues to eat.

 

“You wrote a masterpiece novel because your _father said you couldn’t?”_ Matt finally paraphrases when Elektra adds nothing more, and he’s not sure if the emotion building most strongly in him is despair or anger. “That’s it? You just wanted to write what sold the best, what would show up your father the most? You didn’t mean _any_ of it?”

 

Elektra hums, thoughtful.

 

“Not a word.” She decides finally, mild. And that’s enough. That’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back, that’s the dam crumbling down.

 

“I can’t do this.” Matt says again, and he means it more than ever. “This is wrong for both of us. I need to go.” He raises his hand for the waiter, mind reeling. He had a vague idea of what he had to do tonight, going in, but now it’s crystal clear. He needs to pay the check, get a taxi, and go to—

 

“Do you really think he’ll want you?” Elektra asks, idle and low— _aimed_ low, at the soft skin of Matt’s underbelly in a gutting maneuver. He can _feel_ it connect deep down, even though Elektra's still safely across the table from him. Then again, is Elektra ever  _safely_ anything? “He thinks you’re cute now, but that’s because you’re a puppy to him. He thinks you’re a toothless, guileless ball of fluff, but what happens when he realizes that’s not quite true?” Matt swallows hard. He doesn’t have to ask who she’s talking about. “You’ve got _teeth,_ Matthew, and you’ll bite him one day, hard enough to scar. You’ll make him cry, and do you know what they do with puppies that bite? They put them to sleep, send them to the pound, toss them on the street, anything to get rid of them fast. They. Don’t. Want. Them.”  

 

“Foggy knows what I am.” Matt denies, voice steady but not as loud as he’d like. “He’s my friend.”

 

“He knows you, hmm?” Elektra croons, and Matt finds his hands clenching into fists under the table as he listens, readying for a fight in the only way he can. “Does he know that you can hear every tiny white lie he ever told you? Does he know you stole his secrets away from him, that he will never have a moment’s privacy from you for as long as he lives? Does he know you’re not _quite_ blind, Matthew?”

 

Matt tightens his fists more, hard enough to leave marks, he’s sure. Close to breaking the skin, to bleeding, and blood is lust and that’s not what Matt wants anymore. He understands that now.

 

“I’ll tell him.” He decides quietly, certain. “Everything.” That’s only fair. Elektra laughs, light and cold.

 

“And how about all our adventures together? The broken glass, the joy rides, all those purse-snatchers that you stopped so _heroically_ on our long walks home, spoiling for a fight? You could tell him the first minute of those encounters, I suppose, but you might want to edit out the part where you break their legs. Just a tip. You know Franklin’s such a delicate little daisy flower. He needs to be protected from things like that. Things like you.”

 

“I’ll tell him.” Matt says again, and how his voice sounds too loud to his own ears, brash, clumsy. He’ll tell Foggy, and Foggy will…what? Foggy won’t want anything to do with that. Right now Matt’s an upstanding citizen, a kind friend that likes to talk about books with him. After all this, would Foggy really still…?

 

Matt had forgotten something, these past few months. He’d forgotten his extraordinary talent of losing every friend he’s ever made, just by being himself. He’s a novelty, a fun distraction for a month or two, and then they move on when he gives too little and too much. Just a peek of his scars and ugly parts and it sends them running.

 

“Well then, tell him.” Elektra invites silkily. “Call him right now and tell him. Say it’s urgent. It _is_ urgent. The flight’s been booked for next week. Does he know about Santorini, Matthew?”

 

He doesn’t. Matt doesn’t want to admit that.

 

“I’ll tell him in person.” A call would be cowardly. “After I make sure you’re home safely.”

 

“Oh, don’t bother being chivalrous now.” Elektra orders bluntly. “A bit late, isn’t it? It’s insulting.” Matt grits his teeth and says nothing. “You’re not getting on that plane, are you?”

 

It’s softer than Matt expected, almost melancholy, a total reversal from Elektra’s earlier attack. Matt shakes his head, hates that he doesn’t even need to think about it.

 

“No.” He agrees, and Elektra sighs in something approaching wistfulness. She’s quiet for a moment.

 

“You really like that book, don’t you?” She muses quietly, as though this is finally sinking in after months of Matt gushing about it. He nods warily. “I don’t. I rather detest it, in fact, but that makes sense. It took me a whole week to slog through, did you know? I had to take breaks and go hit something. I only finished it tonight, and lo and behold: a happy ending. I never saw it coming.” Her sarcasm is palpable, and she practically spits it out like an accusation, leaving Matt more confused than ever before. She finished it years ago, not tonight. It's been on the shelves for ages.

 

“You knew it had a happy ending before.” He points out, mystified. Elektra scoffs.

 

“The napkin didn’t. Why would the book?”

 

…Napkin.

 

“No. No. Elektra, you—you wrote those books. I mean, your name is on the cover.”

 

She has to have written them, or else the whole world has just been turned on its head and Matt doesn’t know which way’s up anymore. Elektra laughs, mocking and mourning all at once.

 

“Oh, darling. You’re superstitious, aren’t you? Don’t you believe in ghosts?”

 

* * *

  

It’s got to be close to morning by the time Matt gets to Foggy’s apartment. First came the awkward waiting for the check with Elektra, the inevitable blowout fight when it came to who was going to pay and who was going to leave first and who was the most to blame for this mess, and then there was going home to change into something less Mr. Bond and more Matt Murdock, and then there was pacing the street in front of Foggy’s apartment for full half-hour while trying to steel his nerves, and then there was finally this, knocking on Foggy’s door as loud as he dares. 

 

He listens to the creak of bedsprings as Foggy stirs, the groan as he realizes the knocking isn’t going away anytime soon, the grumbling as he finally forces himself out from under the blankets, the footsteps like drumbeats against the hardwood as he approaches. The door creaks when it opens too, and Matt thinks he really needs to talk to Foggy about proper lubrication when this is all over. Huh. Is the mental innuendo new, or has Matt just been ignoring it this whole time because that was easier?

 

“ _’While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.’_ ” Foggy quips through a yawn, never missing a beat as he nudges Matt inside and closes the door. “Hey, my raven-haired friend. What’s got you pondering so weak and weary upon this midnight dreary?”

 

Matt’s plan becomes momentarily derailed as he fights the urge to lean over and swallow Foggy’s yawn, just taste it right at the source and see if sleep tastes sweet like dreams or stale like morning breath. He quashes the urge as harshly as he can. Not now.

 

“You’re Elektra Natchios’s ghostwriter.” Matt says, and he’s not sure if it’s an accusation or a plea. “You wrote all her books.”

 

There’s a moment of silence, and then Foggy clears his throat like he always does when he's trying to think of the right thing to say. Matt waits. 

 

“I am contractually obligated to say no.” Foggy explains Matt slowly. “So…no?”  _Yes._ It's clear in every syllable.  _Yes._

 

“Why would you do that?” Matt wonders, bewildered and hurt. “You told me how much you wanted to be published, and this whole time you _could_ have been. Why would you let Elektra take that from you?”

 

Foggy sighs, moving further into the room, further away from Matt. Matt follows like he’s on a string, afraid to let Foggy get too far. He’s not sure why, he just knows that he can’t lose Foggy, not for a second. Not now.

 

“My parents worked hard, but they were kind of poor. I couldn’t ask them to pay for college, you know? So I waited tables to make ends meet, only I was paying Ivy League tuition and ends weren’t meeting.” Foggy starts, voice misty with memory. “So Elektra waltzes into the café one day and sees me writing on a napkin, and she pickpockets me when I’m not looking. I give her the check, she gives me a business opportunity. I guess she wanted to piss off her dad? Or her uncle, boss, some grumpy old guy who said she wasn’t good enough.”

 

“And you just, what? Sold her your dream?” Matt knows it sounds judgmental, and goodness knows he understands money problems, but to sell your heart and soul like that…

 

There’s a rustle of cloth, possibly Foggy shrugging. Of course he’d just shrug it off, that’s just like him. He just rolls with the punches, smiling like a fool, and Matt can almost understand Elektra’s words about Foggy being all sunshine and daisies. He doesn’t hate Foggy for it though. God, no.

 

“It was a _really_ good deal, especially for an undiscovered college student like me. I never had to wait tables again, and then with the second book my sister never had to wait tables at all, and my parents finally got to pay off their mortgage and go on their dream honeymoon to Hawaii with the third book. Elektra got a chance to rub it in her father’s face, she got a brighter limelight to shine in and another fanbase to scorn, and I got scouted by a great publishing company after graduation because of the work I did for her. It was kind of a dream come true for a lot of people, Matt.”

 

Matt shakes his head, torn. It sounds lovely, but it’s not…

 

“But it’s _yours_.” He points out, heartsick. “The limelight, the fanbase, the glory—it should all be yours.”

 

Another rustling shrug, and Matt wants to shake the shrugs right out of him and then kiss away the yawns too, while he’s there.

 

“I never wanted the fame.” Foggy replies, placid. “I just liked the idea of giving people something to read when they were lonely. People like you.”

 

And that hurts, it does, because Matt’s so completely messed up this whole thing, he has since that first night when he asked for whiskey instead of sweet wine.

 

“How could you not tell me?” Matt whispers, wounded. “You know how much I…”

 

Foggy must know. Matt’s only been talking his ear off about it for months. How strange must that have been for him, Matt praising his work so passionately and then adding ‘Elektra is a true genius’ right at the end, every time? How does it feel when the critics do it, when the New York Times says that Elektra Natchios is the next J.K. Rowling?

 

“It’s a watertight contract, Matt.” Foggy says gently. “I can’t take _any_ credit or damage her reputation regarding the authorship. I knew that going in. And there were times I wanted to tell you, of course there were, but I didn’t want you to get into trouble for knowing and I figured after a while that it didn’t really matter. You were with Elektra and you seemed happy.”

 

“Because I thought she was you!” Well, that came out…entirely wrong. Foggy sucks in a sharp breath, and Matt tries to salvage the situation. “I mean, I wasn’t only dating her because of the books.” He wasn’t, no matter what Elektra thinks. “But the books were a piece of that. I thought it was a window into her soul, the parts she was afraid to show me, so I was patient and I hurt both of us by waiting to find something that wasn’t there.” Still wrong. Matt shakes his head sharply. “No, the books don’t matter.”

 

“Gee, thanks a lot. I only spent years toiling away on those. Do you know how many napkins gave their lives—for those books that I definitely didn’t write?” Foggy adds hurriedly.

 

Matt shakes his head again, impatient.

 

“No, I mean it doesn’t matter which one of you wrote the books. Forget the books.” Just for a moment, never forever. “If I’d never read those damn books, if I wasn’t so dazzled by them, if I’d just been looking at you and Elektra as people instead of as an idol and her editor, then I would have…it would have been so much easier.”

 

He’d held out hope this whole time, searching for the Elektra Natchios he thought he knew, and the whole time he was looking in the wrong place. How many guilty nights has he wasted, wishing for things that he could have had? Things he _could_ have.

 

Could he?

 

“Matt, Elektra’s pretty dazzling even if she isn’t an ace author. I think you still would have fallen for her. It’s okay. She’s a rose with thorns, and that’s what most people want when it comes to—“

 

“She makes me breathless. She’s blood.” Matt agrees, distracted, and Foggy sighs in consternation.

 

“Yeah, great. She’s the blood in your veins, the wind beneath your wings. Very poetic. I get it.” No, he doesn’t.

 

“I don’t want to bleed anymore.” Matt blurts out, desperate, and this isn’t working, his mind’s all over the place. “I want to burn my tongue.” Wonderful, this is going splendidly. “Coffee. Ocean. Sunrise. Sea.”

 

“Dude.” There’s a note of alarm in Foggy’s voice. “Did you hit your head on the way over? You’re sort of freaking me out here.”

 

This isn’t _working_. Matt’s just parroting out all the things Foggy said to him, and he’s butchering it too. There’s clearly no future for Matt in narration after all of this goes down. He needs something new, something special, something that Matt can say without screwing it up and something that Foggy will understand.

 

Of course. Matt takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and begins.

 

“ _’Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails._ ’” Matt recites softly. “Love is you, Foggy. It’s us.”

 

The silence stretches on too long. Matt’s shoulders begin to sag under the weight of the failure, and he wonders how quickly he can invent an excuse to leave—if maybe he should just run for it now, go home and lick his wounds.

 

“Corinthians.” Foggy murmurs. “You finally dredge up a quote about love for me, and it’s from the Bible. You’re so fucking  _Catholic_.”

 

He doesn’t sound angry. Actually, it’s hard to tell what emotion is thickening his voice, but Matt knows it’s not anger. It’s something warmer, stickier, sweeter, and it sounds like honey tastes.

 

“Is that a bad thing?” Matt asks, unsure, and Foggy laughs. It’s a damp noise, and Matt wonders when he started crying.

 

“No, I love it.” Foggy admits, hiccuping a little on the declaration. “It’s very you. I love it.” Another hiccup. “Can I hug you?”

 

Like he needs to ask. Matt opens his arms invitingly. Foggy’s still sleep-warm, his pajamas rumpled under Matt’s hands, and Matt’s afraid he just makes it worse, wrinkling the material even more when he bunches it between his hands, holds on too tight, afraid to let go.

 

“Elektra and I are over.” Matt thinks it’s probably prudent to mention the fact that he’s _single,_ sometime during his love confession, and it’s better late than never. “She’s going to Santorini next week, so it’s—it's very over.”

 

Foggy sniffles weakly, nodding against Matt’s shoulder.

 

“I thought _you_ were going to Santorini with her.” He mumbles, voice thin and muffled. “I’ve never hated an island before, Matt, but I was sort of hoping for another volcanic eruption if it meant you staying.”

 

Matt tenses, blinking down at where Foggy’s nestled against him.

 

“You knew about Santorini?” He asks, surprised and a bit caught out. And here he’d spent all this time tormenting himself about hiding it. Foggy huffs softly.

 

“Duh. ‘M not dumb. ‘M smart.” He tells Matt’s shoulder earnestly. “I know everything.”

 

Matt hesitates, trying vainly to smooth down a few of the new wrinkles in Foggy’s shift. It’s mostly to give make time to talk himself out of pressing further, but there aren’t nearly enough wrinkles for that.

 

“I did some bad things, when I was with Elektra. She didn’t make me. I just…did bad things.” Matt spins out slowly, still smoothing those wrinkles and adding a few soothing strokes to Foggy’s back, just in case. “How much do you know about that?”

 

Another affronted, sweet little huff.

 

“Matt, I know what Elektra’s into. I work in close proximity with her PR people. She always pays for the damages when she gets caught, so the trick is making sure she gets caught. I know. As long as no one got hurt, I’ll get over it.” Matt stays quiet a second too long. Foggy tenses a little in his arms. “Matt?”

 

Matt swallows and musters up a rather unconvincing smile.

 

“They were all very bad people who were trying to hurt innocent civilians.” He tries feebly. “And they’ll all get better.”

 

“Christ.” Foggy leans back a little, and Matt tightens his hold. “You do understand that you’re not _actually_ Nick Nocturne, right?” Matt cocks his head, perplexed. “Lawyer by day, vigilante by night? Because I have to tell you, outside of fiction? Vigilantism doesn’t work so well as a career choice.”

 

Matt’s well aware, although he’d hardly call what he was doing _vigilantism_. It was just being in the right place at the right time. Vigilantism is more extreme, seeking out trouble instead of stumbling into it. Masks would probably be involved. As long as Matt doesn’t put on a mask, he’s just a concerned citizen.

 

“Oi, stop scheming.” Foggy orders. “You promise you didn’t hurt them too badly?” Matt nods earnestly, and Foggy sighs. “Not cool, Matt. Not cool. No more beating up baddies in back alleys, right?” Matt smiles wider, bright and only a little plastic, and very carefully does not nod or shake his head or answer in any way that might turn into a lie later. Foggy catches it, of course he does. He knows Matt better than Matt knows himself. “Asshole. We’re revisiting this later when I’m not feeling as warm and fuzzy towards you. You will get chewed out like a wad of yummy bubblegum.”

 

Matt looks forward to it. Foggy’s not leaving. Elektra was wrong. Foggy’s hesitant and he’s not exactly approving, even Matt can hear that, but Matt can bring him around.

 

“ _’Love keeps no records of wrongs._ ’” Matt says again, because it worked last time. Foggy snorts and pushes halfheartedly at his chest.

 

“Nope, no. You can’t use the same quote twice to get out of trouble. Try again.” Matt ponders this challenge briefly, grateful for the long afternoons spent at Bible school.

 

“ _’Love covers a multitude of sins_?’” He tries bravely. “ _’Whoever loves others has fulfilled the law?’”_

 

“Yeah, try using that defense in a courtroom.” Foggy mutters, reluctantly amused. Matt grins at him, more confidently this time, and just because he thinks he can now, he presses a feathery kiss to Foggy’s temple. “I really am mad at you.” He doesn’t sound very mad, but Matt takes his word for it. “Really.” Matt kisses his hair this time. “Is this how we’re always going to fight? You’ll just snuggle me until I forgive you?”

 

Matt thinks about the screaming matches he’s had with Elektra, over the smallest things like who was supposed to chill the tequila. He thinks about how he broke a man’s wrist when he pulled a knife on the woman he was robbing. Matt fights by _fighting._ He always has.

 

“Yeah, I think I will.” Matt muses, pensive in light of this dawning realization. He’s always been eager to learn new ways to fight. If he mastered capoeira, he can master cuddling. “How badly are we fighting, right now?”

 

Foggy hums, thoughtful.

 

“How many bones did you break?” Matt frowns thoughtfully and does a bit of mental calculation.

 

“Do hairline fractures count?” He asks pensively, and Foggy sighs in grudging affection and agrees that yes, they count. Matt considers, and then decides they really shouldn’t count as a full bone. Half a bone, maybe. “Thirteen and three quarters.” Bruised ribs count as a quarter, Matt resolves, proud of his ingenuity.

 

“Thirteen and—okay, you know what? We’re just going to round up. It will take you approximately fourteen decades of cuddles to win this fight, assuming you don’t break any more bones in the meantime.”

 

Fourteen decades. Matt’s brow furrows even as another little smile twitches at his lips. He can't seem to stop smiling around Foggy, no matter how hard he tries.

 

“I’d be almost two hundred years old by then. That’s a bit optimistic.” He points out, amused.

 

“What, you think you can weasel out of this by sneaking off to the afterlife a few decades early?” Foggy scoffs, slapping at his shoulder in rebuke. “No way, buddy. I’ll hitch a ride to heaven on a storm cloud if I have to. You’re paying the piper in full, like it or not.”

 

“Like it.” Matt opts immediately, and that seems to take the wind out of Foggy’s sails almost immediately. “Love it.” He does, this whole thing feels like being handed fourteen decades’ worth of happy endings, but that reminds him. “How did the story end on the napkin? The one Elektra took from your pocket? She said it didn’t have a happy ending.”

 

Foggy laughs quietly, like it’s some aged joke that never gets old.

 

“Oh, Nick turns to the dark side, runs off with the villainess, and they die in each other’s arms in a blaze of fiery lovemaking and a hail of bullets. Pretty depressing stuff, reads sort of like a Greek tragedy.” He admits absently. “I think that’s why she liked it enough to buy it. Personally, I’m more of a fan of the revised edition.”

 

The revised edition is the only one Matt knows. Nick chooses to stay with his childhood sweetheart, opens a private law firm that doubles as an unofficial private eye office, and he lives happily ever after, tumbling into adventure after adventure with his lover loyally at his side.

 

Matt compares the two in his mind, weighs the joys and sorrows of each, and it’s really not that hard a decision after all.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, I think the editor made the right call.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re a genius.”

 

“You’ve said that already, sweetheart.”

 

“I’ll never be able to say it enough. You are a genius, a star, a poet. You are my idol.”

 

“Really? Your idol? Would you like an autograph?”

 

“No paper, sorry. I’ve got this lovely little bit of space on my hip though that’s free. Or my stomach. Or my…neck works too, ooh, that's nice." 

 

“No pen, sorry, but I hate to disappoint a fan. I have to leave my mark somehow.” Matt pulls back long enough to quip before leaning back in. 

 

“Mm-hmm. I—ah—I understand completely. Very kind of you. Could you—just a little harder, that’s it, I want to feel it in the morning. I want them to see.”

 

“ _Do_ you? They’ll ask questions.”

 

“I’ll have answers. I’ll just tell them that I have a very possessive boyfriend who also happens to be a genius, a star, a poet, my idol. They’ll eat it up.”

 

“I don’t want them asking questions. Questions mean we’ll have to stay longer, and it’ll he harder for me to drag you away for more autographs.”

 

“Mm, autographs are nice. You’re my favorite author, you know. I’ll need lots of autographs.”

 

And Matt laughs.

 

“Foggy, I wrote a one-page article for a legal journal that nobody reads. You have a book signing tomorrow for a New York Times bestseller. There’s no comparison.”

 

“You’re my favorite.” Foggy repeats stubbornly. “And I’ll have you know that _I_ read that legal journal, starting now, so don’t diss it. Also, I am framing your article and bragging about it to all my friends because you are a genius. _But_ if this is you coyly angling for an autograph instead of just being modest…”

 

“Yes, please.” Foggy bites his ‘signature’ in towards the middle of Matt’s throat, high enough that it will just barely peak over the collar but low enough that no one will dare to call Matt on it. Clever. “There, that looks so pretty. You know, I think like you better than napkins.”

 

From anyone else, to anyone else, this odd comment would probably kill the mood. Matt just grins and leans in for a kiss, right there at the corner of Foggy’s sweet, mocking mouth.

 

“My life’s ambition, realized.” Matt tells him gravely, hand held over his heart, and then it just feels natural to hold his hand over Foggy’s heart too, to feel the steady thrum of it under his fingers. “You have the loveliest heartbeat I’ve ever heard, do you know that?”

 

One of Matt’s favorite moments with Foggy—and there are so, so many favorites to choose from—is when Matt had turned to Foggy while crossing the street and told him nervously: ‘Foggy, I’m not very good at being blind.’

 

And despite the disastrous introduction Matt had given, Foggy had just laughed and laughed, ignoring the honking of the cars around them until Matt finally pulled him across the crosswalk himself. And when Foggy had finally stopped laughing, he’d leaned in close to Matt and touched his shoulder and said: ‘Matt, babe, I sort of figured that out when you beat me at ping-pong for the twentieth time, you _dork,_ close your mouth, keep walking, and tell me what other freaky superpowers you have.’

 

“Yeah, I get that a lot. The doctors fight over who gets to use the stethoscope on me during my checkups. Sexy heart, that’s me.” Foggy tells him indulgently. “Are you really coming tomorrow? You don’t have to, you know. You must be tired from…things.”

 

Things like stopping an armored car robbery and then stopping by the 24/7 mini-mart to grab more milk because Foggy wasted the last of it trying (and failing) to make yogurt.

 

“Two bones, by the way.” Matt confesses abashedly. “I’ll just add two more decades to the tally, shall I?” Matt’s racking up a debt of eternity here, slowly but surely. Foggy groans.

 

“Two more to the tally.” He agrees. “Seriously though, you need sleep. I can go on my own.”

 

Matt frowns, disgruntled.

 

“Of course I’m coming. Like I’d leave you alone with that vulture for a second.”

 

“Vulture—are you talking about _Marci?”_ Matt turns his face away, huffing noncommittally. “I can’t believe you’re jealous. Of the two of us, I’m the one who _didn’t_ have a hot, steamy love affair with a dangerous socialite.” Matt’s well aware of that. “Besides, she’s only interested in me professionally. She wants me to edit another book—a book I think you’d love, by the way, if you actually gave it a chance. You’d like her too. You’re both lawyers that like to talk about the history of crime and punishment in the USA.”

 

Yes, that’s rather the problem. Marci and Matt are alike in an alarming number of ways, not least in their attraction to Foggy, and sometimes Matt is worried that Foggy’s going to notice that Marci’s basically Matt without baggage and he’ll jump ship. Matt knows Foggy’s still a little uneasy with the idea of Matt’s nightlife, and Marci would probably be the type of lover who would stay in bed with Foggy all night and never have to slip out at two in the morning to thwart armored car robberies.

 

“Hey.” Matt exhales shakily when Foggy touches his cheek, the way he knows Matt loves, the way that helps him breathe. “There is nothing you have to be jealous of, okay? You are stuck cuddling me for…hold on, carry the ten…at least a hundred and twelve decades. At least.”

 

Matt nods gratefully, turning his face so that he can kiss Foggy’s hand—first the side of his pinky, then the center of his palm, and finally the callus on his finger.

 

“I still want to go.” Matt persists. “You’re going to be reading some of the _Napkin Anthology_  out loud, right?” Foggy hums in agreement. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

 

He’s going to stand right by Foggy’s side the whole time, tug his collar down and just _dare_ them to ask about the mark, and then he’s going to walk Foggy home and push him into bed and get started paying back a few cuddles, maybe laze through the weekend and finally get some rest.

 

“Sweet-talker.” Foggy diagnoses fondly, shifting closer so that he can swing a leg over Matt’s and get closer still. He kisses the corner of Matt’s mouth too, their special place of hidden kisses. “I want to write a book about what your words taste like. Candied orange peel dipped in bittersweet chocolate, melting in my mouth…napkin.”

 

“Drawer.” Matt directs him fondly, resigning himself to at least a few minutes of being ignored in favor of scribbled notes. Foggy pats his hip and rolls away, and Matt listens to the slide of wood and the rather noisy scavenger hunt of Foggy rummaging through the drawer. “To the left, near the back. I do have a system, you know.”

 

“Huh.” Foggy says, distracted, and then he says it again, more emphatically. “ _Huh.”_ He makes a triumphant noise and the drawer clicks shut. “Is this—it is! I can’t believe you kept it.”

 

“Kept what?” Matt wonders, turning on his side and propping his chin up with a hand. He keeps too much in there, really. He really needs to clean out that drawer.

 

“The _napkin.”_ Foggy tells him meaningfully, and Matt smiles at him in tolerant bemusement. Matt keeps a dozen fresh napkins in that drawer, but none of them should incite this reaction. “From the night we met. You spilled your champagne, remember? And I gave you a napkin, and you kept it.”

 

Matt thinks back to that first night, embarrassed when he recalls how he neatly sidestepped the love of his life in favor of trailing after Elektra like a lovesick puppy. He does remember the champagne now, and the napkin, tossing it in the bedside drawer with a few well-shaped wish stones and forgetting all about it.

 

Foggy recognized it immediately though, which makes Matt think it’s not just a simple napkin. It never is, with him.

 

“Did you write something on it?” He presses, curious. Foggy chuckles, maybe a bit bashfully.

 

“I meant to give you a blank one, I carry so many, but I was in a rush and I was a little, ah, distracted, so I must have—oh, it’s a miracle you weren’t walking around the whole night with ink on your face. That was lucky.” He explains absently. “I wondered what happened to this one. I thought I must have lost it somewhere.”

 

Well, _now_ Matt’s more than curious.

 

“What does it say?” He urges eagerly. “Come on, you have to tell me now.”

 

Foggy snorts.

 

“No way, it’s embarrassing.” He says vehemently. “It’s a good thing a blind man picked it up instead of someone else, all things considered. I’ll just toss it in the bin, no worries.”

 

That’s a lie. His heartbeat spikes, and Matt knows that Foggy’s not planning on losing that napkin again for as long as he lives. Matt _needs_ to know why.

 

“Foggy, please?” He begs, moving closer and rubbing at Foggy’s shoulders. “Come on, it’s really my napkin, after all. You gave it to me.” Foggy grunts, shaking his head. He needs a haircut, the very tips long enough to brush against Matt’s knuckles with the movement, but Matt will never tell him that. He likes to play with Foggy’s hair while Foggy’s sleeping, tie a few little elf-locks into it if he’s feeling particularly mischievous. “Please?”

 

“I hate it when you say please.” Foggy mutters mutinously, and that’s not quite true. He hates that he can’t say no when Matt says please, which isn’t quite the same thing. “It’s dumb, and you have to keep in mind that I was reading Bulfinch and craving Häagen-Dazs when I wrote this.” Matt waits him out. It doesn’t take long. “’ _Persephone dreams in pomegranate seeds. Taste twelve.’”_

 

“What?” Matt thinks he must be missing something, because as odd a statement as that it, it’s nothing embarrassing. Foggy clears his throat.

 

“So, I walk into this party and I see this guy.” He starts, voice dreamy. “And he’s got this pretty red tie and these pretty red glasses and this pretty red mouth like he’s been sucking on pomegranate seeds all night. And I look at him and I think yeah, I can imagine walking through hell for this guy, I totally see where Hades is coming from with this love at first sight stuff—minus the whole kidnapping thing, of course.” He thought all of that? “But _then_ I thought, maybe _I’m_ Persephone and you're _Hades_ , because only a god could look as good as you did. But Persephone only got to stay with Hades for six months a year because she only tasted six seeds, remember, so it was just a little note, a memo to me. If I got a chance to be with you, I should taste twelve seeds instead.”

 

Oh. Matt swallows hard.

 

“I’ve never tasted pomegranate seeds.” Matt’s voice is wrecked. He _feels_ wrecked. Foggy saw him. Foggy with the honey-wine laugh and the spring water smile, Foggy the star and Foggy the savior, Foggy _saw_ him, that first night, and he wanted to write it down.

 

“Really?” Foggy seems amazed but in an inattentive, daydreamy way. Matt can hear the dry crinkle of the napkin as Foggy toys with it in his hands. “You should, they’re delicious. Very red and kind of bittersweet, which I know you’re into, so you should like them just fine.”

 

Matt’s sure he will. He can already guess what they’ll taste like, all his favorite things. Pomegranates will probably taste like warm tea with lemon and hot coffee burning his tongue and birthday cake with icing and that skin just at the hollow of Foggy’s throat right after they’ve made love, when it’s still slick with sweat and flushed warm under Matt’s tongue, soft and salty and sweet and bright.

 

“Twelve.” Matt promises, clutching at Foggy’s hand and the napkin still clenched between his fingers. “We both eat twelve, and then we'll have to stay here together. Always, okay?”

 

“Always.” Foggy says it so lightly,  like it’s easy for him, like it’s nothing, and then he’s curling back around Matt with his cold feet and his warm hands and he's breathing the word into Matt’s mouth and Matt knows it’s not nothing. It’s everything. “Always.”

 

It begins with a happy ending.

 

It ends with a happy beginning. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I finish watching Season 2 of Daredevil, and I tell myself that I am never going to write a story with Elektra Natchios in it because I could never do her justice, she's way too complicated, she makes Matt way too complicated, I am way too conflicted over her character and she sunk my ship. One week later, I've written a story where she's a main character, and I wrote her character badly because, as I knew, I could never do her justice. I am fickle scum. 
> 
> Also, I hate trying to write writers, especially ones who are supposed to be GOOD writers. Foggy's supposed to be a brilliant author, and I have him babbling for 24,000+ words about nothing. I am fickle fictioneer scum. I apologize for this story.
> 
> Still, the literary references were fun. If Charlie Cox actually narrated an audio of Good Omens, I would buy a dozen copies and sleep with them under my pillow at night. Lumpy, but worth it.


End file.
